Merged Horizons
by Lady Leita
Summary: When Dr. Vidic uses a new technology to try and get the information from Altaïr's memories, Desmond gets the shock of his life... *Warning: Spoilers in later chapters!*
1. Chapter 1: The Phoenix Project

**Heh heh heh... Hi. Well, this is my first fanfic (that I've finished, anyway), so I'm kinda new at this... Bear with me, please. In addition, I've never actually played through the game (just a couple bits and pieces here and there), so there's probably a whole bunch of mistakes I need to go through and fix; my friend (who has played through the whole game) can't catch all of it. If you spot one, please tell me what and where it is so I can fix it as soon as possible. :**

**Just another warning: There WILL be major plot spoilers in the later chapters! There are also minor spoilers all through the story, too.**

**Well, I've got nothing else, so... Enjoy!**

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Chapter One:

The Phoenix Project

"The subject is moving too slow with the Animus," a deep male voice said, the tapping of his feet echoing softly around the white-walled break room. He refilled his cup of coffee from the pot, taking a deep swig. "We're already far behind schedule. I do hope the Phoenix Project will help speed things up; our superiors don't like to be kept waiting."

"We don't even know if it works on humans yet," a female voice protested, "And who knows what would happen if it works? We could end up doing irreparable damage to the space-time continuum, and if—"

"You worry too much." The man said, taking another long drink of coffee. "The subject himself is in no danger, and I'm sure his ancestor's memories will remain intact if the Phoenix Project fails."

"And how do you know that?" the woman snapped back.

"Simulations," the man said confidently, "And all the research that we've done. We've gone too far to trash the machine and start from scratch, and all the calculations seem correct. We're just having problems with the lab animals we've been using so far, and all of their cellular memories have ended up intact anyway."

"But we haven't gone that far back in their DNA yet!" the woman said, "The farthest we've gone back is their parental unit, nowhere _near_the scale you're talking about, and what are we going to do with… With _him_ if the Phoenix Project ends up working?"

The man smiled. "I will let you arrange that." The woman sighed angrily and turned to stalk out of the room, but the man stopped her. "Before you put the subject on the Animus for today's session, would you take a sample of his blood for me? I'll perform a few final tests on animals, but as soon as they prove to be successful I want to—"

"He has a name, you know," the woman snapped back, "And I don't see why you're so impatient. Desmond will get to what you want eventually."

"'Eventually' is too long from now, Lucy," the man snapped back, "I already told you, I will perform the final experiments, and then _tomorrow_ we will try out Desmond's blood. Now get the subject on the Animus, and see if we can get his cellular memory to progress any further. With luck, we might uncover some clues."

Lucy sighed, "Yes, Dr. Vidic."

Dr. Vidic glared at her, and Lucy walked out the door, a little more discouraged than when she entered.

In his room, Desmond climbed off the sink and retreated to his bed. The air ducts didn't provide him with nearly enough information to be able to make a valid conclusion; what _was_ the Phoenix Project? And why did he get the distinct feeling it involved Altaïr?

After a few long moments, Lucy appeared at his door, gesturing in the general direction of the Animus. Almost mechanically, Desmond got up and stepped into the Animus's chamber, letting her take a quick sample of his blood before lying down on the freezing-cold metal table. Lucy retreated back into the control room, pushed a few buttons, and the oh-so-familiar holographic screen slid over Desmond's head, lighting up with data from the previous sessions and models of his DNA.

Back in the control room, Lucy sat down at the Watcher's desk, adjusting the screens of what Desmond saw and getting comfortable in the chair. She started up the coffee machine, checked the mini-fridge for creamer and a steady supply of Diet Coke, and set a timer to ring at noon to remind her to let Desmond take a break for lunch.

Desmond closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

It was going to be a long nine hours.

--

The next morning, Desmond woke up at 7 A.M., same as always.

He literally rolled out of bed, already not looking forward to the day ahead of him. He slouched to the bathroom, rubbing his eyes. The hours he spent on the Animus every day wore him out, and he always ended up stiff and achy the next morning.

Desmond took a quick shower, cranking up the hot water as far as it would go to try and wash the soreness out of his arms and legs.

Clean and marginally less sore than he was when he woke up that morning, Desmond wiped off some of the condensation from his mirror.

Dark green eyes stared back at him, set in a dark-skinned face passed down from his Arabic ancestors. His eyes scanned the face in the mirror; heavy eyebrows centered over his eyes, a hint of a moustache under his nose, the pale pink scar that slashed down the right side of his lips. He sighed, making himself look even more tired and lonely than he usually did lately; sometimes it was hard to believe he was only twenty-five years old. Grabbing a towel, he dried his short, messy dark-brown hair, and pulled on some clean clothes: a white hoodie, jeans, and a pair of socks, what seemed to be the official uniform for captives of Abstergo Industries. He had ceased bothering putting on shoes after about his third day at Abstergo.

When he got back to his room (or, more appropriately, cell), he saw that breakfast had already been served. A bowl of cereal, a carton of milk, and a take-out cup of Starbucks coffee waited for him on his bedside table.

Breakfast of champions.

Desmond ate his cereal in silence, and began to wonder what he'd get to see during his session at the Animus today. It was one of the highlights of his painfully boring stay here at Abstergo Industries; after all, who wouldn't want to watch the memories of a 12th century ancestor like it was a movie? He didn't fully understand why the Animus had been made or why Abstergo had chosen him for their experiments, but there was one thing that Desmond couldn't deny: traveling through his ancestor's—Altaïr's—memories was undoubtedly the coolest thing he had ever done.

As much as he'd like to deny it, though, Desmond couldn't help but be jealous of Altaïr. Desmond was tall and well built, but his abs were nowhere _near_ sculpted or rock-hard. He wasn't incredibly muscular or athletic. Not like Altaïr, who was strong and fast, and could run along miles of rooftop and scale walls and jump off tall buildings into piles of hay without breaking a sweat, and _still_ have enough energy to finish his mission, all before supper.

This was why Altaïr was an Assassin, and Desmond was a bartender. Altaïr was deadly and perfect, while Desmond could use a couple hours at the gym.

Altaïr had the grace of a hawk, while Desmond could recall several instances when he'd accidentally walked into a glass door. Or a wall.

No matter what he did, Desmond would _never_ be able to compare to Altaïr.

Even though he had his differences with his ancestor, Desmond still wondered what went through Altaïr's head. The memories the Animus allowed him to see usually involved missions and a little bit of the downtime in-between the missions, but Desmond never actually got to see what Altaïr was like when he _wasn't_ killing people. From what he had seen so far, Desmond knew that _before_his demotion, Altaïr was cocky and arrogant, which had resulted in his friend Malik losing his left arm and his brother when a mission went horribly wrong. After a near brush with death and a demotion to Novice, Altaïr had changed; he'd become quiet and withdrawn, avoiding Malik whenever possible, not really talking with anyone.

Sometimes, when he let his mind wander, Desmond would have an imaginary conversation with Altaïr. Even when faced with a demotion, Altaïr always seemed to know what to do, what was going on; Desmond always ended up hopelessly lost.

A knock on his door brought Desmond back from his thoughts. "Come in," he called, knowing who was on the other side even before the door slid open and she stepped inside his room.

"Good morning, Desmond," Lucy said, her high heels clicking on the linoleum floor. Desmond liked Lucy; she was the only one who ever really talked to him in Abstergo, with the exception of an occasional "Hi" from one of the security guards or a chat with Dr. Vidic, the head scientist. Lucy was tall and slender, with blonde hair that she always had pulled back in a bun and bright blue eyes. She was pretty, and there were times when Desmond wondered why she worked at Abstergo when she could have any job she wanted; she was smart, talented, and beautiful.

"I have some good news for you," Lucy said, tapping her clipboard with her finger. "Dr. Vidic and I have some other work to do today, so you don't have to go on the Animus. It's a free day."

Desmond's face lit up. "Seriously?"

Lucy smiled, a rare occurrence. "Is there something you'd like to keep you occupied for a while? A deck of cards, a book…"

"A pack of cards would be nice," Desmond said, "And I was wondering… Would you mind if I got out of my room and walked around a little bit? It's pretty cramped in here…"

Lucy seemed surprised by the request, and paused. "Well… I guess so…" she said. Noticing the look of elation crossing Desmond's face, she quickly added, "But only if you stay in the lobby and don't snoop around too much, otherwise Vidic will get angry and you'll stay here for the rest of eternity."

"Thanks, Lucy!" Desmond said, leaping up and wrapping Lucy in a hug.

A moment later he doubled over in pain as Lucy jabbed him in the gut with a sharp underhand punch. She took a few steps backward, looking down on him. "Don't ever do that again." She turned on her heel and left the room. "Lunch is at noon and will be delivered here. Be back before then or you'll get caught."

Desmond smiled as he straightened, the pain wearing off already. A whole day to himself! He would probably miss not being able to see Altaïr in the Animus, but he could use his time to do much more productive things.

Like take a nap. That sounded like a good idea at the moment.

So, Desmond stretched out on the bed, and closed his eyes. Perhaps later he would find out the answers to his problems.



The Assassin wove deftly through the streets of Acre, listening intently for the heavy sounds of following footsteps behind him. He heard nothing, and slipped into an alley. Any minute now somebody was going to realize the Templar was dead.

The idle talk of the city folk behind him was split with a woman's scream.

_About time,_ the Assassin thought as he headed back to the rendezvous point. _You would think a dead man in the middle of the marketplace would be more obvious._

He delivered the news of the soldier's death to the waiting informer, who eagerly paid up the fee and gave the Assassin the information he needed. Relieved that the mission was _finally _over, the Assassin headed back toward Masyaf to report his success to Al Mualim, leader of the Assassins.

His horse was waiting for him in the usual spot, and he rode off into the distance just as the Templars in the city realized that the one who did the act would be leaving rather quickly. He heard their shouts behind him as he spurred his horse into a full gallop; _"Damn you, assassin! Damn you!"_

_--_

After an hour or two of hard riding, Masyaf came into view. Once he got within the city limits, the Assassin dismounted and led his horse to the area where his brothers-in-arms kept theirs. When no one was looking, he quickly scaled a wall and walked on top of the roofs to get to the Stronghold; there was much less traffic that way.

"I see you have returned alive, Altaïr," Al Mualim said, putting down his book and picking up a quill in order to write something or the other. "But did you succeed?"

"I have," Altaïr replied calmly, plucking a bloody feather from the red sash tied around his waist and a small bag of coins from a pouch on his belt. "And here is the payment."

"Excellent," Al Mualim said, examining the feather for a brief moment before pocketing the coin pouch. He smiled. "I am pleased to see that you have been sticking to the Creed, Altaïr. Does the pain of your demotion still trouble you?"

Altaïr grimaced, glad his hood was shadowing his face as it flushed in shame. "Yes, sir."

Al Mualim placed a wrapped bundle onto the table. "You have earned it, Altaïr. Well done."

Cautiously, Altaïr unwrapped the bundle. A short sword lay inside, and glistened in the light as he picked it up and tested the weight. "…Thank you, sir," he said, the barest hint of a smile flashing across his face. Another weapon he had back in his arsenal.

Al Mualim smiled again, and picked his book back up. "You are dismissed."

Altaïr sheathed the sword in the scabbard on his back, bowed respectfully to the Master Assassin, and walked out of the room, barely suppressing his joy.

After he wandered the fortress for a while to calm himself down, Altaïr headed toward the courtyard of the fortress. He was incredibly pleased with himself; it had only been a month or so since his demotion to Novice, and he had already almost earned back all of his weapons.

But he still had a long way to go before he got back his former rank. It was going to be tough, but Altaïr wanted his rank back badly.

Almost as badly as Malik wanted his arm back. Or his brother.

Altaïr still hadn't forgiven himself for what happened on that day.

The day Malik's brother was murdered by the Templars, and Malik had lost his left arm.

_If only I could turn back time!_Altaïr thought sadly as he slumped down in a shadowy corner of the courtyard, taking a deep breath of the fresh air. Malik still hadn't, and probably never would, forgive Altaïr for the mistakes he made on that day.

_It is nothing to worry about now,_ Altaïr thought, flicking out his hidden blade and feeling its comforting sharpness for a moment. He retracted it, and sighed. _I did not expect this mission to be so exhausting; I think it is within my rights to take a quick nap._

Wondering silently about how he was going to make things right between him and Malik again, Altaïr fell asleep.



After a few hours of what seemed like the best sleep he had gotten since he came to Abstergo, Desmond got up and out of bed. Lunch was, indeed, served at exactly 12 o'clock noon, so he ate about thirty minutes after he woke up. After cleaning his plate obediently and waiting until the janitor had picked up his dirty dishes, he left his room to explore.

Every once in a while, Desmond was reminded by that handy, annoying little voice in his head called his conscience that Lucy had said only the lobby, but put that aside for the moment. He _would_ go to the lobby… _After_ he had found out what the Phoenix Project was.

Desmond slunk almost expertly through the empty halls of Abstergo, past the Animus's chamber, past one of the employee's numerous break rooms, and past an extremely cluttered office that belonged to one of the lesser scientists that worked here at Abstergo. If there was one thing he had learned from his time in the Animus, it was how to track people; it helped that he had picked up a bunch of information from Lucy and Vidic's conversations in the break room that shared a wall with his bathroom, and he had happened to overhear a room number.

He cleared the intersection before heading down the hall to his right, then paused as he heard some angry voices from down the hall. He recognized Lucy's and Vidic's, and quickly tested the nearest door's open button.

A keypad popped out from the wall, demanding the code.

Locked.

He tested the button of the door opposite it.

Locked as well.

He saw a storage closet and, on a whim, tested it.

It opened silently, and Desmond ducked inside.

"I told you we needed to do more tests!" Desmond heard Lucy snap.

"I couldn't have seen that coming," Dr. Vidic answered.

"It didn't even _work,_" Lucy retorted.

"I realize that. It was something I must have overlooked—"

"Overlooked? Did you forget that going _that far back_ in a human's DNA would be more complex than going back one generation in a mouse's?"

By now Dr. Vidic was starting to get angry. "If you have a solution, Lucy, say so!" The tapping of their shoes on the linoleum floor got momentarily louder, then started to fade, as did their argument as they rounded the corner and headed toward either Vidic's office or the nearest break room. Desmond waited quietly until he couldn't hear their footsteps anymore, then a few more seconds until he was positive it was safe.

He peeked outside for a moment before scampering down the hall, excited. He was going to find out the answer to at least _one_ of the questions that had been bugging him for a while.

The door to the Pheonix Project's chamber was still open, allowing for an easy entry. Inside, Desmond was greeted by an enormous machine.

It was basically a twisted mass of wires, pipes, surrounding a central, boxy tube with what looked like a sliding door in the front. Out in front, a brightly glowing display panel sat, begging to be touched and messed with.

If there was one thing Desmond was good at besides making martinis, it was computers and other electronics. He had been fascinated with them ever since he was a kid, and had been learning and creating code practically since he had learned how to type. He touched the screen, and the mouse moved with his finger. He tapped a lonely-looking box over to the left side, titled "SUBJECT 17".

It pulled up a picture of him, his DNA, and a whole load of information about him. It was slightly creepy, when you thought about it.

Then Desmond noticed the other side of the display. It was a jumbled string of code, waiting for further input before finishing whatever task the computer was set to do.

Desmond typed in a string of code on the touchscreen, going slow so that, if he ended up getting a lot of information that he would need to access later, he would remember the code. He hit the "ENTER" key, and waited for something to happen.

There was silence for a long, agonizing moment, and then the machine in the back of the room began to hiss.

Desmond backed up, alarmed, as the machine beeped and whirred, chemicals and energy being pumped into it as it geared up to perform whatever action it was created to do. The hissing steadily got louder as more power was fed to it, and a light began to glow in the seams of the door.

The noise rose in a crescendo as the machine performed the final operations, and the light in the seam of the door glowed brighter than ever before. Fearing the worst, Desmond ducked behind the solid base of the display screen, bracing himself for an explosion.

Suddenly, everything just stopped. The noise, the light, everything.

Desmond didn't dare look, in case it still exploded.

There was a soft rasping sound as the doors opened, and loud coughing could be heard from within the tube's chamber. Smoke began to flood the room, being carried away by the ventilation systems almost as soon as it floated out of the chamber.

Now Desmond peeked over the top of the display screen.

Waving away the smoke, his back to Desmond, was a man, clad in white, hooded robes. But there was no mistaking the weapons on his back; the red sash around his waist; the gauntlets on his arms; the distinctly cut robes, made to look like an eagle's feathers as the wearer soared from rooftop to rooftop.

There was no mistaking the armor. Or the fact that the ring finger on his left hand was missing.

As if it was cut off.

Slowly, the figure in white turned to face Desmond, a look of bewilderment on both of their faces. There was definitely no mistaking the eyes; they were the same dark green eyes that Desmond looked at every morning in the mirror.

"I am Altaïr Ibn La-Ahad," Desmond's ancestor said, in perfect Arabic, "And I do _not_ believe this is the courtyard of the Assassin's Stronghold."


	2. Chapter 2: A Very Strange Problem

**Hi all! I'd just like to say, thanks SOOOO much for all the encouraging reviews on chapter one! I've worked pretty hard on my little pet project, and I'm glad it's been so well received. :) A big thanks to everyone whose added me to their story and author alerts too!**

**But again, same deal as before: if you see a problem, tell me about it so I can fix it, I'd like this to be as close to canon as possible.**

**Thanks, and enjoy!**

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Chapter Two:

A Very Strange Problem

Ever since Desmond was a child, he had been put to sleep with stories of the great Assassins of the old age, who valiantly defended their home from invaders and always managed to trick the Evil Templars into making their own plans fail. Once he got older, though, he began to dismiss such stories as fairy tales, especially as time went on and he learned about the Knights Templar and discovered that, in recorded history, the Assassins "never existed".

And now, a very confused, very deadly Assassin from 1191 was in the same room as him, as surprised and alarmed as he was.

Desmond was suddenly very, very glad his parents had always insisted he learn Arabic.

_Hello, Altaïr. I'm your descendant, Desmond Miles. I'm not sure how you got here, and I'll try my best to send you back, but I would really like to talk to you._

"Um…" was all that came out of Desmond's mouth.

_Hello, my name is Desmond. I'm so sorry to bother you, Altaïr, but you see, I have been kidnapped by an evil industry that is trying to find something from your memories. You see, I am your descendant, and somehow your memories were carried through to my DNA._

"Uh…"

_Greetings, Altaïr. My name is Desmond Miles, and I am your distant grandson. Welcome to the year 2012. I would very much like to talk to you._

"…Hi."

Altaïr stared at him for a long moment, not quite sure what to think.

In a fluid movement Desmond could barely follow with his eyes, Altaïr was behind him, Hidden Blade flicked out and positioned dangerously close to Desmond's throat. "Send me back," he said calmly.

"I… Wha…?"

"Send me _back._"

"I… I'm sorry… I'll try…"

"Stop casting your spells and answer me!" Altaïr snapped, pressing the blade closer to Desmond's throat.

Desmond hadn't realized he was still speaking English. "I—I'm so sorry, Altaïr," he said, switching to Arabic and struggling to find the words, "I—If you release me, I'll try to send you back…"

The pressure of the Hidden Blade released from Desmond's throat and he dropped to the floor, shaking. He had never been so close to death before.

"I will go back into there," he said, pointing toward the tube, "And you will send me back with the same magic you used to send me here. I will forget I ever saw you, and you will forget you ever saw me. Am I clear?"

Swallowing, Desmond nodded. He brought a hand to his throat, and then pulled away as he felt something wet. His own blood was on his hand.

Shaking, Desmond re-accessed the control panel. Altaïr returned to the tube and, facing outward, crossed his arms defiantly.

Desmond accessed the code box.

Empty.

And he hadn't paid any attention to the code that had preceded his addition.

"Um…" Desmond said, trying to find something, _anything_ that would help him in this situation.

"Well?" Altaïr said from the tube, "What is taking you so long, wizard?"

"I… Ican'tsendyouback."

"_WHAT?!"_Altaïr roared, stomping out of the tube to seize Desmond's hoodie. "_How does a wizard not know the spell he uses?!_"

"I-it's not a spell!" Desmond stammered, "It's a code! And I don't know the first part of it… I—I just… Kinda added onto it…"

"I should just kill you now," Altaïr hissed, "Because you dared to perform witchcraft—"

"Not witchcraft, science," Desmond interrupted.

"And take me away from my home." Altaïr finished, glaring at Desmond. But, sighing, he dropped Desmond's hoodie. "But I can't, because as of right now, you're the only one who can send me back." Altaïr sighed, and sat down on the floor, burying his face in his hands and taking a few deep breaths. After a minute or so, he looked up. "What is your name?"

"D-Desmond. Desmond Miles."

"Des…Mond." Altaïr said slowly, letting his mouth get used to the word. "An odd name."

Desmond laughed weakly. "Heh, I guess so, but wait until you hear some of the other names around this pla—oh _God,_ I completely forgot!"

Altaïr was a little startled. "Forgot what?"

"Lucy and Vidic could be back any minute!" Desmond cried, grabbing his head as if it would help him. His head snapped around to Altaïr. "I've gotta get you out of here."

"Lue…see… and… Vih-dic?" Altaïr asked, confused already. His hand brushed the touch screen, and he let out a yelp of surprise when he saw it moving and responding to his touch. "That—that canvas—"

"Yes, yes, I'll explain later," Desmond said quickly, grabbing Altaïr's arm and practically dragging him out the door.

Altaïr blinked painfully as his eyes adjusted to the brighter light outside the Phoenix Project's chamber; it had been rather dim in there, and the electric lights outside the room were much brighter. Absently, he glanced upward, and was immediately fascinated. "The sun shines so brightly through your skylights…"

"They're not skylights, Altaïr," Desmond said, steering the Assassin down the hall that led to his room. "They're electric lights."

Altaïr gave him a funny look. "E-leck-trick? What is that? Another kind of magic you use?"

Desmond was beginning to get tired of all this magic nonsense. "No, it's a form of energy. We can turn it off, if we want."

Over to their right and a few steps behind them, a sliding door opened with a sweeping noise. Altaïr jumped. "What was that?"

"Just a sliding door, nothing to be worried abou—" It was at that moment Desmond realized that the person coming _through_ the sliding door would probably see Altaïr, so he quickly dragged them into the nearest employee break room, which was, fortunately, empty.

The footsteps passed, and Desmond looked out, and dragged Altaïr back down another hall, silently praying that he wasn't getting them lost.

Desmond's fears were soon put to rest when he saw the door to his room, slightly ajar from his escapade. He slipped inside, Altaïr following silently.

Altaïr took in the room with one quick sweep of his head. "Where are we?" he asked cautiously.

"My room," Desmond said, snapping on the lamp on his bedside table and then pacing in front of his bed. He started muttering in English, "What am I going to do, what am I going to do…?"

Altaïr sat down in the far corner of the room, away from the door, away from the lamp and the bed. He brought his knees to his chest, and began to wonder, himself. _What am I going to do? What am I going to do?_

Desmond glanced over at Altaïr. The Assassin was glancing around the room like a scared child, and then it hit Desmond; Altaïr was probably terrified out of his wits. This kind of technology didn't exist in 1191.

Now that he thought about it, Desmond didn't think _any_ technology existed in 1191.

No _wonder_ Altaïr kept muttering things about magic.

Desmond glanced over at his ancestor. Altaïr's face was shaded by his hood, but his head moved in jerky, nervous movements, as if he wasn't sure what was going to happen next. He tried to scoot farther into the corner, desperately attempting to find defense wherever he could.

"Wha—what have I done?" Desmond whispered as he stared at Altaïr.

Altaïr lay down on the floor, curled up into as tight a ball as possible, tucked into his little corner. It was all a bad dream. It had to be.

He was going to wake up the next morning and get yelled at by Malik for oversleeping.

Exhausted, Altaïr closed his eyes. Everything would be better in the morning.

--

Desmond watched as Altaïr fell asleep, clueless as to what to do.

There was a knock on his door, and Desmond practically jumped out of his socks.

Cautiously, he answered the door. "Hello, Lucy."

Lucy looked suspicious already. "Hello… Desmond… May I come in?"

"No." Desmond said quickly, blocking her entrance with his arm.

Lucy stepped to the side to try and push past him, but Desmond blocked that too.

And the other side.

"Stop that." Lucy said, dodging and weaving to try and step into the room.

"You can't come in." Desmond said hastily, preventing her from doing so.

"Why not?"

"Because."

Desmond did his best to block Lucy's sight into his room. Lucy did her best to try and see what the hell was going on.

"_Desmond._" Lucy said dangerously, tired of the game already, her hands curled into tight fists and her clipboard looking dangerously close to being snapped in half. "I don't know _what_ your problem is right now, but _let me inside your freaking room._"

Desmond almost let her in. Lucy was really pretty when she was angry.

"I—I can't."

Unceremonially, Lucy shoved Desmond aside, stomping defiantly into his room. "Honestly, I give you the day off, and this is the thanks I…" Her words trailed into nothing as she noticed the curled-up figure in the corner. Her mouth dropped open, and she stared at Desmond for a long moment. Then at Altaïr. Then back at Desmond.

"Dr. Vidic needs to know about this." Lucy whispered, staring at Altaïr. She started to approach him, but then backed toward the door. "Dr. Vidic…"

"No, Lucy, no, please, don't—" Desmond pleaded, holding his hands out to her as if it would make her stop moving toward the door.

"Dr. Vidic!" Lucy shouted as she turned out the door and started sprinting down the hall. "Dr. Vidic!"

Without thinking, Desmond sprinted after her. He was amazed she could run so fast in high heels.

--

In moments, Lucy and Vidic were in Desmond's room, both of them staring at Altaïr. Vidic took a long drink of his coffee, and eyed the Assassin. "Is he…"

"Sleeping, I think." Desmond said sullenly from his bed. He had pulled the hood of his hoodie over his head, feeling immensely guilty.

Vidic stared at Altaïr, and then at Desmond. "How… How did you do it?"

"I don't know," Desmond answered. Ironically enough, it was true; he had no idea how Altaïr had shown up, or what the code he'd typed in did to complete whatever operation the computer was supposed to perform.

Vidic took another swig of coffee and stared back at Altaïr. "This…" he said quietly, shaking his head, "This is better than we ever could've imagined."

Lucy looked extremely nervous. "What if he wakes up?"

Vidic thought it over for a minute. "We should remove his weapons." He glanced over at Desmond, who had an alarmed look on his face. "Just in case."

"Y-yes Dr. Vidic." Lucy stammered, eyes wide.

"I'll send for the security guards," Vidic said.

Desmond just stared at the linoleum. He had never felt more guilty for anything in his life.


	3. Chapter 3: A Time Paradox

**Hey, all! I'm glad the last chapter was so well received, thanks for all the reviews!**

**The plot thickens...**

* * *

Chapter Three:

A Time Paradox

When Altaïr woke up, three questions crossed his mind: how long did I sleep, why am I curled up in a ball, and _where the hell am I?_

He lay on the floor for a few more minutes, eyes closed and breathing regular, trying to figure out the answer to his questions, when it all came back to him; the successful mission, waking up in a metal, smoke-filled chamber and coming out to find an incompetent sorcerer who couldn't send him back. He was in a horrible place, that much he could tell; there was magic _everywhere_, from the doors to those strange, "E-leck-trick" skylights.

Altaïr heard something shift roughly to the front of him, and he cracked open an eye just a slit. On what looked like a bed on stilts was a man in a white, hooded shirt and blue pants, with odd-looking cloth shoes on his feet. Altaïr remembered his name: Desmond, the wizard who brought him here.

Altaïr thought over what he should do. Perhaps he could get Desmond to explain more than he was able to yesterday.

Sitting up, Altaïr absently flicked out his Hidden Blade, wanting to feel and hear its comforting "schnick".

He felt nothing.

Altaïr jerked his arm again, figuring that the first time was just him laying on it wrong and it malfunctioning or some nonsense like that.

Nothing.

And so the third, fourth, fifth time.

Frantically, Altaïr stared down at his left hand.

His Hidden Blade was gone.

Altaïr's hand flew to his scabbard.

His sword wasn't there.

And the scabbard on his back.

Empty as well.

Altaïr searched his corner desperately, hoping that they all dropped off of him while he slept and he'd find them.

"I'm sorry, Altaïr," Desmond said, surprising Altaïr. He had thought Desmond was still sleeping.

"They took your weapons when you were asleep. I—I tried to stop them. They wouldn't listen to me. I'm sorry."

Altaïr stared at Desmond in shock. It had never occurred to him that something like this could—no, _would_—happen.

Desmond rolled over to face Altaïr. He looked exhausted.

"They're deciding what they're going to do with you right now. I couldn't sleep last night; I was worried they would take you away when I was asleep. I kept waking up every five minutes or so just to check that you were still there." Desmond laughed weakly. "Not that I should've been worried; even asleep you're a formidable enemy. You gave one of the armored guards a black eye, and the other one got cut pretty bad when you sliced at him with your Hidden Blade. Force of habit, I guess."

Altaïr was staring at his empty left hand, feeling… Naked. It was like walking around without a shirt on; without the Blade's weight, his arm just didn't feel _right_.

"They'll be in here any minute now with breakfast." Desmond said, turning away from Altaïr again. "I hope you like cereal."

Altaïr didn't know what this "cereal" was, but was still too shocked about the loss of his trusty weapons to ask.

Sure enough, in a few minutes, the sliding door opened, startling Altaïr, and Lucy walked in, carrying two bowls of cereal, two cartons of milk, and a cup of Starbucks. She set them down on Desmond's desk, and then stared at Altaïr.

He was much different looking awake than asleep; fierce, dark-green eyes pretty much identical to Desmond's stared back at her for a brief moment, focused and sharp like a bird of prey's. Lucy could see where Desmond got his looks; they looked extremely similar, and she would've easily believed that they were brothers, instead of distant grandfather and grandson. Altaïr's fierce, defiant expression remained for just a fleeting moment, before turning into surprise, and curiosity. He looked Lucy over once or twice, then turned to Desmond.

"I have never seen hair that color before," Altaïr told Desmond. Glancing back at Lucy, he asked him, "Is she a whore?"

Desmond was startled. "What?! Altaïr! That's rude!"

Lucy stared at the two of them as they spoke in Arabic, totally lost.

"Look at how she is dressed," Altaïr said, "I have never seen a woman in such short clothing!"

"No, she's not a whore!" Desmond snapped back, "I can't believe you would say something like that!"

"But look at how short her skirt is," Altaïr protested, "It ends above her knees. Disgraceful."

"Um… Desmond?" Lucy asked hesitantly, "Wha—what is he saying?"

"He…" Desmond said, switching quickly to English, "He's saying… You're really pretty."

Lucy went red. "Oh, um… I don't know what to say…"

Altaïr stared at Desmond. "She is a witch, too? Even more disgraceful."

"No, she's not a witch either," Desmond said back, shaking his head. "People who live here speak that as the language."

"Oh," Altaïr replied, "I still think it is strange that you have all of these magic devices around you, if you are not wizards."

"I've already told you, Altaïr, they're not magic."

"Oh, of course. They are 'E-leck-trick'."

"No, some not even that. They're science."

"Scy-ence sounds like another word for magic, to me."

Desmond sighed. "You know what, forget it. I'll try and explain better later. I'm too tired right now." Desmond grabbed his cereal, poured milk in it, and started eating. Then, he noticed that Abstergo failed to provide Altaïr with a spoon.

"Hey, Lucy," Desmond said, calling Lucy back from leaving the room, "Altaïr didn't get a spoon."

"Oh, sorry, Desmond," she said, brushing back a stray strand of hair behind her ear, "I should've mentioned it earlier, but Vidic doesn't want Altaïr to have anything that can be used as a stabbing or blunt weapon. I guess he'll just have to eat his cereal with his hands. I'd try and get a spoon if I could, but Vidic is having this room monitored twice as closely since we've got a 12th century Assassin in here." She glanced over at Altaïr, who looked totally lost in the conversation. "I'm sorry. I'll try and make this more comfortable for both of you as soon as possible, but Vidic won't listen to me and it's really pissing me off." She sighed in frustration. "You'd think that by now he'd pay more attention to the things I say, but no, Dr. Vidic is _always_ right, in his own self-righteous little mindset—" Lucy remembered that there were hidden microphones and cameras in the room, and quickly stopped herself. She straightened up, took a deep breath, and finished, "I'll try and get a room for Altaïr, or at least a mattress or some blankets for him to sleep on." She smiled grimly. "We haven't quite figured out yet what's going to happen, so just sit tight. Sorry." She turned to leave, then stopped herself. "Oh, and there's a pack of cards on your desk."

Lucy left the room and headed toward the nearest elevator; for some strange reason known only to him, Vidic had decided that the staff meeting had to be on the third floor today. Once the door slid closed and the elevator started moving, she pressed her forehead to the cool metal. All of this would be so much easier if Altaïr wasn't _beautiful._

Back in Desmond's room, Desmond and Altaïr sat in silence for a few moments. "What happens now?" Altaïr said.

Desmond sighed and resumed eating his cereal. "I don't know." He grabbed the other bowl and passed it to Altaïr. "This is cereal."

"What is this, then?" Altaïr asked, pointing to the milk carton.

"That's milk."

"In a box?"

"Yes. Abstergo didn't give you a spoon, so I'd not pour any on your cereal."

Altaïr picked up a couple of the brownish flakes, eyed them suspiciously, and popped them in his mouth.

"Well?" Desmond asked.

"They are edible." Altaïr replied, grabbing a small handful from his bowl. "This cereal is not the best food I have eaten, but it will suffice for now."

Desmond then realized that Altaïr probably hadn't eaten anything since yesterday afternoon... In 1191. "Do you want me to ask for some more food?" he asked Altaïr.

Altaïr had already eaten half of the bowl. "I think that would be a good idea. I am still quite hungry." He finished the cereal and stared at the milk carton, trying to figure out how to open it. After struggling with it for a minute, he grudgingly handed it to Desmond, who promptly popped it open and gave it back.

Desmond made sure to ask for more when the janitor came by to pick up their dishes. Lucy came by to drop off a box of cereal, which Altaïr gladly opened and started wolfing down. Along with the cereal, Lucy had brought a couple apples, which Altaïr also gladly accepted. Desmond watched him eat in half fascination, half disgust. "How long has it been since you ate anyway?"

Altaïr paused for a minute, having already eaten his apples and starting on the cereal again. "Breakfast yesterday." He paused, doing a few quick mental calculations, then muttered, "Yes, it was before my mission and I missed lunch riding to Masyaf…"

Desmond watched Altaïr crunch another handful of cereal, and was thankful that he wasn't paying for Altaïr's meals.

Altaïr eventually finished after eating a little more than half of the box of cereal. "I apologize for my indecency when I ate," Altaïr said, standing and brushing cereal crumbs off of himself.

"Oh, no problem at all," Desmond said, sipping his coffee, "I understand."

Altaïr looked surprised. "Really? Such behavior would have been frowned upon, back at the stronghold."

Desmond nodded. "Right. So, how did your mission go?"

Altaïr stared at Desmond in shock. "How do you know of my mission?"

"You mentioned it a few minutes ago. So, how did it go?"

"Flawlessly," Altaïr said, sounding proud of himself. "I killed my charge before he even realized that Assassins would be after him, and Al Mualim gave me one of my weapons back."

"That's great!" Desmond said, smiling. "Wasn't he the fourth on your list?"

Altaïr looked horrified. "Only Al Mualim and the head Assassins at the Bureaus know about that list. How—how did you…?"

"Oh, yeah." Desmond said, rubbing the back of his head. "I guess I have a lot of explaining to do." He made himself comfortable on his bed, and said, "I guess I'd better start from the beginning. You see, Altaïr, I'm your descendent…"

Desmond told Altaïr all he knew about what was going on, starting from his being kidnapped by Abstergo and the Animus, down to the more recent Phoenix Project. Altaïr listened silently until Desmond stopped talking, only interrupting to ask for an explanation of some term or the other.

Altaïr took a deep breath after Desmond finished. "It is no wonder I have been so confused."

Desmond shrugged. "I'm still pretty turned around. The Doc won't explain anything to me and Lucy can't, because of contract."

"Contract?"

"It's like an oath, but written down and signed."

"Ah." Altaïr glanced over to the door. "I think we can trust…" he paused, trying to remember how to say her name, "Looh-see."

"Why?" Desmond asked, finishing off his Starbucks and setting the empty cup down on his desk.

"She acts more like an ally than an enemy," Altaïr said. Desmond remembered that Altaïr had 'Eagle Vision', an almost-sixth-sense which helped him pick out minor behavioral differences that distinguished friend from foe.

Desmond was relieved. He liked knowing that he would be able to trust Lucy, and in his memories, Altaïr's Eagle Vision had never been wrong before.

Suddenly, Desmond's door slid open, making both him and Altaïr jump. "Good morning, Mr. Miles," Dr. Vidic said cheerfully, looking unusually happy and about twice as creepy as he usually did. The older man's attention then turned to Altaïr. "And our Assassin is awake! Good morning, Altaïr, I trust you slept well?"

Altaïr gave Dr. Vidic a weird look.

Rolling his eyes, Desmond said, "He doesn't speak English, Doc."

Dr. Vidic's annoying, gray-bearded grin didn't leave his face. "No problem, no problem at all, Mr. Miles. I just suppose I will have to get you to translate for me." He turned to leave the room, then turned back to Desmond and said, "By the way, could I get you to agree to a tiny little experiment in the Animus's chamber?" His smile seemed to turn slightly more sinister. "I have a couple tests I need to run."

Desmond frowned; he did not like the words "Vidic", "Animus", and "Experiment" in the same sentence. "Only…" he said, "Only if you swear that you won't do anything to Altaïr while I'm out of the room."

Vidic paused, a little surprised. "I don't think you're in any position to negotiate, Mr. Miles…"

"It's the only way I'll go." Desmond said firmly. "Send Lucy in here to watch Altaïr, and to make sure that no one sticks him with a needle or tranquilizes him or something." His hands curled into fists. "Because if someone does something to him, Altaïr will fight back. And then I won't sit down on the Animus again without a fight."

Vidic stared at Desmond, surprised and irritated. He opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again quickly. He grabbed a small microphone clipped onto his shirt collar and asked for Lucy, then turned on his heel and stalked out the door.

Desmond smiled to himself. Desmond: 1, Abstergo: 0.

Altaïr looked over at Desmond expectantly. "What has happened? Who was that man?"

"The man was Dr. Vidic," Desmond said, "Though just call him Vidic, it's easier." He glanced over to the now-shut door. "I'll have to go away for a little bit."

Altaïr looked alarmed. "Why?"

Desmond smiled grimly. "They want to do some tests. Don't worry, I asked for Lucy to come make sure that they don't do anything to you."

"Tests?" Altaïr asked, glancing suspiciously at the door.

"Tests on the Animus." Desmond said quietly.

Altaïr's eyes shifted to the floor, and he nodded.

"I'll be right outside if you need me."

Altaïr said nothing.

Lucy knocked at the door, and Desmond switched places with her. "Don't let them hurt him." he whispered to her as they passed each other.

"I won't," Lucy replied, rolling her eyes, "That was the reason you called me in here, wasn't it?"

Desmond sincerely hoped that Lucy would keep her word as he walked over to the Animus. Altaïr was almost like a child; he was amazed and frightened by the world around him, and he couldn't speak with anyone else at Abstergo (unless, for some unknown reason, Lucy knew Arabic. Desmond doubted it, though.).

Without saying a word to Dr. Vidic, Desmond laid down on the Animus, making sure to take as long as humanly possible, until Vidic got tired of waiting and snapped at him. Vidic activated the Animus's controls, and the data screen slid over Desmond's head. He found the memory where he left off with his eyemouse, and the familiar data stream as he synchronized with Altaïr's memories filled his vision.

However, something was wrong.

_ERROR_, the Animus's annoyingly soothing voice said in his mind, _Data stream unavailable. Please synchronize subject to continue._

Vidic's brow furrowed, and he typed in another string of commands.

_ERROR: Data stream unavailable. Please synchronize subject to continue._

Vidic frowned, and he typed in another code.

_ERROR: Data stream unavailable. Please synchronize subject to continue._

"Lucy, get in here," Vidic called, beginning to pace.

"What's going on?" Desmond asked, half-hoping that the Animus was broken and he would be able to stop having sessions.

Lucy poked her head out of Desmond's room, looking irritated already. "Altaïr's not going to watch himself—"

"Bring the Assassin with you, then," Vidic snapped, glaring at Desmond.

Desmond didn't know what was going on; however, he had the distinct feeling it was a result of the Phoenix Project.

Lucy walked into the room, leading Altaïr by the hand. Altaïr kept glancing over his shoulders, looking nervously for escape routes and possible hiding places. Lucy led him over to the Animus, and gestured to a chair. Altaïr sat obediently, and Lucy walked over to the controls.

"This is why you have me operate the Animus, Dr. Vidic," she sighed, rolling her eyes as she typed in a particularly long string of code into the machine. It paused for a minute, interpreting the commands, before the error message popped up again. "Great," Lucy muttered, "It looks like he'll have to go back through a previous memory to get here. I can't sync directly from where we left off."

She had the synchronization canceled, and told Desmond which of the memories to sync with. He did as he was told.

_ERROR: Data stream unavailable. Please synchronize subject to continue._

Lucy frowned. "This doesn't make any sense… The Animus worked fine the other day…" She glanced over at Altaïr, who was busy ignoring the Animus and alternating between picking at his fingernails and staring out of the window. She searched the Animus's control screen, trying to find an answer, when it hit her.

"The reason there aren't any memories for Desmond to sync to," she said, turning to stare at Altaïr, "Is because they haven't been passed on yet."

Altaïr glanced up from his hands and took in Lucy and Vidic's faces. He quickly shifted his gaze back down at his hands like a child who has done something wrong.

"So you're saying this is my fault?" Desmond asked, glancing first at Lucy, then at his ancestor through the holographic screen.

"Well, you're the one who brought Altaïr to this time, so I guess so." Lucy said, putting her hands on her hips and shaking her head. "There's nothing we can do about it right now, so I guess you can go…"

She didn't need to say it twice. As soon as the holographic screen retracted from over Desmond's head, he practically leapt off of the Animus.

"So," Desmond said, staring at Lucy and Vidic from the other side of the Animus, "What happens now?"

"I don't know," Lucy said truthfully.

"Lucy and I will have to discuss it," Vidic snapped. He stomped out of the room.

Lucy glanced after him, then turned to Desmond. "Ugh," she said, rolling her eyes, "Lately Vidic has gotten really pissy when things don't go his way."

"What happened, exactly?" Desmond asked.

Lucy sighed. "Somehow, all of your cellular memory for Altaïr has been erased. I don't quite know how it happened, but I guess the erasure happened when the Phoenix project brought Altaïr back. Until we get him back in his own time, we can't access his memories." She smiled sadly. "And until then, there's no telling what Vidic will do."


	4. Chapter 4: The Animus

**Well, firstly, my apologies for not posting in a while. The couple of weeks after school ends gets kinda hectic for me, so I'm sorry that you haven't seen a new chapter recently. However, since I've had the whole story typed out before I started posting it here, at least you don't have to wait for my never-ceasing writer's blocks to break up. :)**

**I'll try and post at least once a week from now on, it was unfair to you guys for you to wait that long.**

**So, here's a new chapter, sorry again for the wait!**

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Chapter Four:

The Animus

Lunch proved to be mildly interesting; Desmond had to explain to Altaïr what a sandwich was, though once Altaïr got the concept, the only question he asked was how they managed to cut the meat so thin. After lunch, Desmond taught Altaïr how to play Go Fish, War, and Solitaire, using the pack of cards Lucy had left on his desk. They played War for an undeterminable amount of time, before getting bored and talking about random subjects. Altaïr and Desmond swapped stories of their childhoods: Altaïr told a couple funny stories about his antics as a young Assassin, while Desmond told him about life at the Assassin's compound where he grew up. Desmond did most of the talking; Altaïr's stories were mostly short and to the point, and he preferred to stay quiet and listen to Desmond instead. As they talked, Desmond began to realize how mind-numbingly boring his stay at Abstergo would be if it weren't for the Animus.

Thankfully, Desmond and Altaïr didn't have to put up with Vidic for the rest of the day; Altaïr had only been around the man for five minutes and already didn't like him. Lucy popped by every so often to check on them, mostly making sure that they weren't killing each other or (at Vidic's urging) asking if she could get anything for them, with the exception of a lock pick or a key to Abstergo. Other than that, it was a pretty uneventful day.

Until dinner, of course.

"Alright!" Desmond said, grinning as he saw Lucy bring in two disposable bowls of spaghetti, "My favorite!"

Altaïr just stared.

"Again, there's no fork for Altaïr, because Vidic is paranoid," Lucy sighed, setting the bowls on Desmond's desk, "But I managed to get lots of extra bread and a heap of napkins. I hope it helps some." She disappeared from the doorway and came bearing two good-sized loaves of French bread and enough napkins to stuff a sofa. "They're also arranging a room for Altaïr, so you two won't have to share a room for much longer. It might even be settled by tonight." She scowled and added, "Personally, I'd prefer that I _didn't_ have to run between two rooms to deliver everything that Vidic decides is important, but _my_ opinion doesn't count anyway."

Desmond stared at the bread. "How _exactly_ is bread going to help Altaïr eat?"

"I don't know," Lucy snapped, irritated, "Why don't _you_ figure out something?"

"Jeez, sorry," Desmond said, surprised.

Lucy took a deep breath to calm herself down. "Sorry," she muttered, "Vidic."

"Oh," Desmond said, shaking his head, "I honestly don't understand how you can work with the guy."

"To tell the truth," Lucy said as she turned to walk out the door, "Neither do I."

Desmond smiled as he watched Lucy leave, and passed a bowl of spaghetti to Altaïr. The Assassin stared at the bowl as if it were a lizard corpse. "What is that?"

"Spaghetti," Desmond said, passing Altaïr some of the napkins and a loaf of bread. "Good luck eating it."

Unsurprisingly, Altaïr was puzzled by this new food. He tore off a hunk of the loaf, and experimented with trying to pick up the slippery noodles. It took him a couple of tries, but he finally managed to get a mouthful. He seemed pleased with the taste, and continued using the bread as a makeshift utensil, alternating between pinching the noodles between chunks of the crust and mopping up the sauce with the soft interior.

Desmond couldn't help but watch Altaïr eat; it was funny to see this deadly, serious Assassin get his hands dirty eating spaghetti. Before long, he had abandoned his fork and adopted Altaïr's strategy instead.

When Lucy arrived at Desmond's room to pick up the dishes (Vidic had decided he didn't trust the janitor with that task anymore), she found Altaïr and Desmond mopping up the last of their spaghetti sauce with the last of the loaves of bread, their hands and faces smeared with sauce. They seemed to have been having a great time; both of them looked more relaxed and happier than she'd seen in quite a while. "What in the world did you do?" she asked Desmond, a bewildered look on her face.

Desmond shrugged, wiping his face with a napkin. "Eat dinner."

"I realize that, idiot," Lucy said scornfully, shaking her head as she picked up the bowls and Desmond's fork, "I was referring to how you got Altaïr to smile."

Desmond hadn't noticed when they ate, but Altaïr had let slip a small smile; possibly the first one in a long time.

As would be expected of a master Assassin, Altaïr was an extremely light sleeper. Desmond quickly learned that Altaïr's death-like sleep the night before was probably due to extreme exhaustion; now, Desmond could hardly shift on the bed without Altaïr waking up. Desmond could quit worrying about someone tranquilizing Altaïr while they slept, because Altaïr would simply wake up, kick some ass, and then fall back asleep as if nothing had happened.

Desmond snuck off to take a shower while Altaïr dozed in the corner; he didn't want to spend the entire morning explaining how a shower worked, and wanted to get clean before breakfast. Altaïr was still asleep (or pretending to be asleep, you never could really tell) when Desmond came out of the shower, so he sat down on his bed and thought about the possibilities of the day ahead.

Lucy came in with breakfast about an hour after Desmond got out of the shower. Altaïr woke with a start the moment the door slid open, but relaxed when he saw it was only Lucy. She set the bowls of cereal down on the table (along with a few pieces of fruit for Altaïr), and left without saying a word. She seemed worried this morning; about what, Desmond couldn't figure out.

Altaïr said nothing as they ate; he seemed to be more nervous about today than Desmond was.

Desmond frowned. Something wasn't right.

Things only got worse once Vidic showed up at the door.

"Good morning, Mr. Miles, Altaïr," he said, taking a swig of coffee from his mug, "I need you in the Animus's chamber ASAP."

Desmond did a quick translation for Altaïr, and his ancestor paled slightly. The two reluctantly stepped out of Desmond's room, Altaïr looking like he would desperately like to hide back in Desmond's room.

Lucy was already at the controls of the Animus, rapidly typing in code. She glanced up from her work, and looked a little bit upset. "Dr. Vidic, are you sure—"

"Yes, Lucy, I am," Vidic said from his desk, glaring at her over the screen of his laptop.

Lucy frowned. "Desmond… I need you to keep Altaïr calm while he's on the Animus."

Desmond was startled, and it showed. "What? No way. You can't put Altaïr on that thing. He'd have a heart attack."

Vidic glanced up from his laptop, annoyed. "This can be done with or without your cooperation, Mr. Miles."

"Oh yeah? And what'll you do with Altaïr then? He's not just going to sit obediently while you pump him full of tranquilizers." Desmond said, scowling, "He's not exactly big on technology either, so it'll be great to watch you try and convince him on the Animus."

"We can argue about it all day, Mr. Miles," Vidic snapped, "Or we can get it over with right now. With luck, we'll find what we're looking for immediately."

Lucy glanced at Altaïr, then at Vidic. "Um, it'll be a _little_ difficult to sync to a memory if it hasn't been created yet, Dr. Vidic—"

"Put Altaïr on the Animus. Now." Vidic commanded, glaring first at Lucy, then at Desmond.

Desmond gulped. This wasn't going to be pretty. "Altaïr?"

The Assassin turned his head to Desmond, and nodded.

"I need you to lie down on the Animus for me." Desmond said quietly, gesturing to the Animus.

Altaïr stared at it for a second, then glanced back at Desmond. He shifted back to the Animus for a long moment, before turning to look at Desmond again.

"Look," Desmond said cautiously, putting his hands in his pockets, "I need you to go out on a limb and trust me, alright? I promise it won't hurt you."

Altaïr grimaced. He gave Desmond one last glance, before slowly climbing onto the Animus's table.

From his desk, Vidic smiled. Things were going just as planned.

Altaïr glanced around nervously, his head moving in small, jerky motions. He almost had a seizure when the Animus's view screen slid over his head, and probably would've ripped it off had Desmond not been there to calm him down. He stared at Desmond pleadingly through the viewscreen. Desmond could already see that this was not going to end well; the Animus's holoscreen was the least alarming thing that could happen on the Animus, and Altaïr had already reacted badly.

Lucy shifted uneasily, and she glanced over to Desmond. "Make sure you keep him calm. There's no telling what could happen if he gets too excited."

Desmond didn't think "excited" was the word for what Altaïr was feeling right now, but he wasn't in the mood to correct Lucy. "Deep breaths, Altaïr," he told the Assassin, who was as tense as if he had just walked unarmored into a room full of Crusaders.

Altaïr shut his eyes, willing it to all be over soon.

And so, it began.

Altaïr trembled as his vision clouded, and was slowly replaced by a distant memory. He did not understand what was going on, but definitely did not like it.

Desmond spoke soothingly to his ancestor, trying to keep him from flipping totally over the edge. Altaïr was not handling this well.

Lucy was watching her control screen anxiously, and was therefore the first to know when the synchronization began to fail. She typed in a code frantically as she watched his heart rate spike, then said, "We have to take Altaïr out, Dr. Vidic, his subconscious is rejecting the Animus—"

"So did Desmond, on his first time through," Vidic said calmly, taking a sip of coffee, "And Altaïr will be no different."

The warning lights on Lucy's control screen were flashing urgently. "If we don't, he could die." She glanced up at Desmond and hissed, "Calm him down!"

"I'm trying!" Desmond snapped back, his reply sandwiched between two Arabic phrases. "He's freaking out!"

"No shit!" Lucy muttered. Louder, so Vidic could hear, she said "I'm aborting the synchronization."

"No!" Vidic said suddenly, leaping from his chair.

"So we should let him die?!" Lucy said over her shoulder as she began typing in the abortion code.

Altaïr, however, had had enough. With his eyes squeezed shut as tight as they could go and his face grimacing, he reached over his shoulder and began to pull the holoscreen away from over his head. The Animus resisted, but the joint began to spark and groan as the warning lights flashed faster.

That was the final straw, for Lucy. She finished the abortion code, and the holoscreen retreated back into the Animus. Altaïr scrambled off of it, and cowered behind a column.

"Dammit, Lucy!" Vidic snapped, stalking over to the Animus, "You should've continued the synchronization, everything was going normally—"

"Until the warning lights came on," Lucy retorted, "And Altaïr's heart rate spiked to over a hundred! Had we kept him on there any longer, he would've died!"

While Lucy and Vidic argued, Desmond crept back behind the column to find Altaïr. The Assassin was curled up, knees to his chest, hands on his head, shaking uncontrollably. When he heard Desmond, Altaïr's head snapped up, his face contorted into an expression of terror. "N-never make me go on that—that _thing_—again," he whispered, his voice shaking.

"Never again," Desmond said quietly. He helped Altaïr to his feet, and the two retreated to Desmond's room to wait out the storm.


	5. Chapter 5: A Key, A New Room, And A Plan

**Hai. Sorry I kept you guys waiting forever (again), real life is a bitch like that. And Knights of the Old Republic. Yeeeeeeeeah.**

**On Sunday I'm leaving for a cruise (NOES!) so I think I'll post part one of Chapter Six sometime during the week... (Chapter Six is freakishly long, but I couldn't really divide it up into separate chapters.)**

**Thank you all for your patience, and encouraging reviews! Here's part five, DISCLAIMER: Desmond uses strong language. You were warned.**

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Chapter Five:

A Key, a New Room, and a Plan

Lucy and Vidic argued for an indeterminable amount of time, giving Desmond a while to fume over what had happened.

Altaïr and Desmond were totally silent while they waited; Altaïr was in his corner, jumping at the slightest sound and trying to set himself straight, while Desmond sat on his bed, staring at the door and imagining several painful ways to kill Vidic.

After what felt like several hours, there was a tentative knock on the door. "Desmond?"

Desmond got up and promptly blocked the door when it slid open, revealing Lucy. "What?" He snapped, glaring at her.

Lucy frowned. "You can't seriously be blaming me for what happened."

"I never said I was," Desmond said, "But you played a big part in it."

"_Look_, I can't control what Vidic thinks any more than you can, so—"

"This isn't about what Vidic thinks, dammit!" Desmond snapped, slamming his hand against the metal doorjamb and causing both Altaïr and Lucy to jump. "Altaïr could've _died_—"

"Had _I_ not canceled the synchronization," Lucy snapped back. "Maybe that wouldn't have happened if you had kept him calmer—"

"While he's being examined by a nightmare machine that makes him see things he didn't even know existed. He's like a—like a child. He has no idea what the hell is going on, and if something freaks him out enough, he's going to do something about it."

Lucy sighed angrily. "Listen, Desmond, I came to apologize, but now—"

"Now, what?" Desmond snapped, "Now I'm being overprotective? He's my fucking _ancestor_, Lucy! What would happen if he _died?!_"

"_I don't know!_" Lucy retorted, "You have _other_ things to be worrying about besides Altaïr, Desmond!"

"_Like what?_"

"_SHUT UP!_" Altaïr roared, startling Lucy and Desmond. The Assassin was on his feet, a little shaky and glancing around nervously. Lucy hadn't understood what he said, but the message got across.

Lucy and Desmond glanced at each other, then back at Altaïr for a moment. "I have to go," Lucy said sullenly, stalking out of the room.

"Yeah, do me a favor and don't come back!" Desmond called after her, right before the door slid shut. He paced for a few moments, before finally deciding to punch a wall. He immediately regretted it as pain shot up his arm, but at least he felt a little better.

"Sorry, Altaïr."

Altaïr had sunk back to the ground a few seconds after Lucy had left. He glanced up at Desmond from under his hood. "It was not your fault."

Desmond sighed angrily. The next few hours were going to be awkward.

Lucy came with dinner a few hours later, dumping it unceremoniously on Desmond's desk and not speaking a word. Desmond was still too irritated to notice Altaïr's fascination with their slices of pizza.

The next morning, Desmond began feeling guilty about yelling at Lucy. After all, it _wasn't_ really her fault; he made up his mind to apologize as soon as he saw her.

However, the door opened that morning to show Vidic holding the bowls of cereal. "Where's Lucy?" Desmond asked, a little surprised.

Vidic set the bowls down on the table. "She called in sick today. That's not like her, she hasn't missed a day before…"

Desmond frowned and stared down into his bowl, already starting on another self-implemented guilt-trip.

"Good morning, Altaïr!" Vidic said when he noticed Altaïr trying to grab a bowl of cereal without him noticing, "I hope you've recovered from your trip with the Animus yesterday, because we're starting back up with it as soon as Lucy gets back."

Altaïr stared at him strangely, before cautiously snatching a bowl of cereal from Desmond's desk and scampering back into his corner.

"Not much of a talker, is he?" Vidic said, staring at Altaïr with a huge smile on his face.

Desmond rolled his eyes. "He still doesn't speak English, Doc."

Vidic's face fell. "Oh, right." He turned and left the room, muttering something intelligible to himself.

Desmond glanced at the floor, and could barely keep from bursting into laughter. Vidic had dropped his emergency access key.

Gleefully, Desmond picked it up. "What is that?" Altaïr asked between mouthfuls of cereal. He had calmed down considerably since yesterday's fiasco on the Animus.

"Our ticket out of here," Desmond said quietly, making sure to stash it safely away in his jeans pocket. However, his spirits fell quickly. "And… I have no idea how to escape."

Altaïr thought for a minute. "If I was given the opportunity to scout around for an hour or so, I could discover a plausible escape route."

Desmond started. "You could? Really?"

Altaïr nodded, and Desmond almost hugged him.

Things were looking up.

Sure enough, Lucy came back the next morning. She looked like she was in a better mood than she had when Desmond last saw her, so he took the opportunity to apologize.

Lucy smirked as Desmond stammered out his apology. "Damn right, you're sorry," she said once he finished, "I even came with news the other day." She set Desmond and Altaïr's cereal down on Desmond's desk, and said "They've set up a separate room for Altaïr, with a bed and everything. He doesn't have to sleep in here on the floor anymore."

Desmond wasn't quite sure how to react to this news.

"I'm supposed to take you two over there sometime after lunch, so you can get Altaïr settled in," Lucy said calmly, gathering up her clipboard, "And I don't think Vidic is planning to use the Animus at all today, so I guess you get another free day." She scowled. "You seem to be getting a lot of those lately."

"Yeah, I guess so," Desmond said, his mind already trying to figure out how he could turn this to his advantage.

Lucy left, and Desmond gave Altaïr a quick rundown of their conversation. Altaïr looked somewhat disturbed. "A new room?"

"Yeah."

"It sounds like they are trying to separate us; they may be suspecting that we have plans to escape."

"Or they might be trying to sedate you without me knowing."

"That could also be true," Altaïr said, "I have resisted them thoroughly thus far."

Desmond paused. "You moving to a new room could be the excuse we need for you to get up and explore for a bit. We won't have long; maybe fifteen minutes, more if we're lucky. You think you could do it?"

Altaïr scoffed, "I have done much more in much less time."

Desmond grinned. "Awesome." With that, he dug into his cereal.

Sure enough, Lucy showed up sometime after lunch to escort them to Altaïr's new room. They followed her through numerous twists and turns of the hallway, taking note of each one, and eventually arrived at a room. "Here we are," Lucy said as the door slid open and Desmond and Altaïr walked into the room.

With the exception of the missing glass-topped desk and a slightly different layout, Altaïr's room was identical to Desmond's: queen size bed, closet that didn't open, and a fully functioning bathroom, complete with hidden security cameras and microphones.

"Well, enjoy," Lucy said sarcastically, as she turned to leave. She paused for a minute, and asked Desmond, "You _do_ remember how to get back to your room, right?"

Desmond nodded as he looked around Altaïr's room.

"Good. I can leave then. Try to stay out of trouble." With that, Lucy turned on her heel and left.

Desmond would've _sworn_ she was deliberately giving them an opportunity to do some reconnaissance.

"Alright, go," Desmond hissed to Altaïr. With a silent nod, the Assassin slipped out of the room.

Desmond busied himself with a quick rest before Altaïr came back. "I have found several probable routes," the Assassin said quietly. With a slightly scornful tone, he added, "It is almost like they _want_ us to be able to escape." He looked around the room suspiciously, and said, "I do not like this. Not at all."

"What's wrong with the room?"

"There is nothing wrong with it," Altaïr scoffed, "I simply do not trust these people. I would be more comfortable if I remained in the same room as an ally."

Desmond suppressed a smile. Altaïr _trusted_ him, thought of him as an ally instead of an incompetent sorcerer. That was an improvement.

"You sure you want to stay with me?" he asked, "They gave you a bed; no more sleeping on the floor."

Altaïr glanced at the bed for a moment, before a wicked smile slipped across his face. "Perhaps we should bring the bed to _us_, instead."

Desmond grinned in reply.

It took them about ten minutes to lift up the mattress of the bed and carry it to Desmond's room; it was a miracle they didn't get caught, though Desmond thought it was a little strange that no one noticed two people carrying a mattress through the halls.

Now they sat in Desmond's room, Altaïr on his new mattress and Desmond on his bed, talking idly and laughing at what they'd done. "By now they've probably figured out that you're not staying in your room anymore," Desmond said, grinning. "Let's smile for the camera!" With that, he faked a wide grin and waved to a corner of the room, directly above his door.

Altaïr stared at him, a strange look on his face. "What are you doing?"

"Waving to the people watching us. You should too, as extra insult," Desmond said, laughing. He gave Altaïr a quick explanation of what a camera was, and Altaïr began to wave too. After a few moments, Desmond flipped the hidden camera off, grinning fiercely.

Altaïr stared at him.

"It means 'fuck you' in English," Desmond explained, smirking and laying back on his bed.

Altaïr nodded and filed that information away for future use.

Within minutes Vidic was at the door, red faced and fuming. "What—"

"Sorry, Doc, but Altaïr didn't like the room," Desmond said, shrugging, "It didn't appeal to his artistic nature, or something like that." He grinned, and added, "He liked the bed, though."

Vidic looked slightly murderous. "Get him back in his room, Mr. Miles."

"He chose this room, Dr. Vidic," Desmond said innocently, "You can't force him to stay in a room that he doesn't like." He paused for a minute, then said, "Well, you could, but it would result in some broken bones…"

"Don't be a smart ass," Vidic snapped, "Altaïr is supposed to have stayed in that room, whether he liked it or not, _and you know it_."

"We never agreed to that, we were simply told that Altaïr would be getting his own room."

"He has a point, Dr. Vidic," Lucy said, stepping calmly into the room, Altaïr and Desmond's dinner in her hands.

Vidic stared at her angrily for a moment, before throwing his hands up in the air. "Fine! Take his side! I don't care!" He glared angrily at the three of them and stalked out of the room.

Once Vidic left, Lucy glanced balefully at Desmond and Altaïr as she set down their food.

"Hey, you never said we couldn't," Desmond said quickly.

Lucy sighed, and shook her head. "I just hope you didn't do anything _too_ stupid." She left the room, secretly laughing to herself.

Desmond grinned at Altaïr, who was stretching out on his mattress. "So, what's the plan?"

"It will be easier if you just follow me when we leave," Altaïr said, "All we will need is a distraction, to keep them occupied while we run for it."

Desmond smiled. "I can handle that."

Altaïr nodded, and ripped off a chunk of quesadilla with his fingers. "Then tomorrow we shall escape." He smiled, and added, "Get a good night's sleep, Desmond; I guarantee to you that by the end of tomorrow, you will need all the energy you can get."


	6. Chapter 6: The Escape: Part One

**Hey, all. Sorry this chapter is so late, I couldn't get on the internet in time to post this before my trip. So here's Part one of Chapter Six. It's split into two because it was too long to keep in one chapter, and I think you guys would like to come up for air. XD**

**So here's Chapter Six, Part One; Part Two will probably be posted tomorrow, so enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter Six:

The Escape: Part One

The next morning seemed like any other morning at Abstergo; Desmond and Altaïr woke up, ate breakfast, and were eventually greeted by Lucy at the door. Altaïr was supposed to go on the Animus again; he was surprisingly calm, though he paled when he caught sight of the machine.

All was going as planned, until Desmond snuck around to the back and pulled the fire alarm.

A screeching horn blasted from the loudspeakers, startling Lucy, Vidic, and Altaïr. Vidic began to yell at Lucy to turn it off, and the both of them stumbled out of the room, trying to find somewhere where the alarm wasn't so deafening.

Which left Altaïr to find Desmond, and allowed the two to sneak off to put Altaïr's plan into action.

"It did not have to be so loud," Altaïr complained over the din of the alarm.

Desmond grinned sheepishly, and the two came to the windowed hallway directly across from what would be Altaïr's room. Desmond spotted the elevator, and pressed its button eagerly.

The door didn't open; it had locked and shut down automatically when the alarm went off.

Altaïr gestured toward the door to the stairs, but that turned out to be locked as well. Desmond unlocked it with Vidic's emergency access key, but the sound of footsteps somewhere below it gave him second thoughts. "Now what?" He yelled to his ancestor.

Before Desmond could react, Altaïr ran to the nearest break room, picked up a chair, and chucked it at the window. It broke in a satisfying crash, and Altaïr looked outside expectantly.

"Oh, God…" Desmond said, going white as a sheet, "You can't be serious."

Altaïr looked over at him expectantly. "You are an Assassin, correct?"

"N-not anymore…"

"You have had proper training, at least?"

"Well, yeah, but that was nine years ago!"

Altaïr frowned. "What?"

"I'm not an Assassin anymore!" Desmond said, "I'm a frigging _bartender!_"

There was an awkward pause. "_Why did you not tell me this before!?_" Altaïr finally said, horrified.

"It never came up!"

Altaïr looked out the window again, judging distances and making quick calculations. The look on his face said it all: _This is not good._

"We are jumping." He said finally. "I will guide you."

Desmond looked outside, and regretted it. The ground was _really _far down.

"We will be aiming for those," Altaïr said, pointing at some hedges that seemed more like a child's Legos than bushes to Desmond.

Altaïr kicked some broken glass out from the window ledge, and grabbed Desmond's arm. "Do as I do. Do not close your eyes. Do not let go of my arm."

Letting go of Altaïr's arm was the _last_ thing Desmond wanted to do.

"On my count, push off as hard as you can," Altaïr said, "One…"

Desmond gulped, and tried not to imagine the certain doom awaiting him.

"Two…"

Desmond squeezed Altaïr's arm in a death grip, nearly petrified in fear. He had never been good with heights.

"_Three!_"

They jumped.

Desmond and Altaïr sailed through the air, and time seemed to slow around them; for a long moment, it was if invisible wires hung them, suspended, in the air.

Then, they began to fall.

Desmond shut his eyes, terrified, but then snapped them open when he remembered Altaïr's warning. He glanced over at the Assassin; Altaïr seemed almost totally relaxed.

Of course, Altaïr had done this _hundreds_ of times; _he_ didn't need to be afraid.

Altaïr's grip on Desmond's arm never slackened as they plummeted through the air. A few seconds before Desmond was sure they would become a bloody mush on the ground, he twisted his body in midair. Desmond tried his best to copy him, and Altaïr had to adjust him for a brief moment, before—

They landed safely in the bushes, the spiny bushes poking and scratching them, but the branches flexible and supple enough to absorb most of the impact. Desmond and Altaïr rolled off the bush, a little bruised from the sharp twigs, but otherwise unharmed.

Desmond was shaking as Altaïr helped him to his feet. The Assassin let out a small smile. "That was not so bad, now, was it?"

Desmond glared at him, and pulled a couple leaves out of his hair.

Altaïr looked back up at the broken window several stories above them, and muttered, "I have jumped off higher things."

Glancing around, Desmond quickly noticed the road, and the two headed toward it. There was a small line of twisted trees on the other side of the road, and Altaïr had started to run across, when Desmond yelled. "Wait!"

Altaïr half turned to look at Desmond, stopped in his tracks. Desmond grabbed his shirt and yanked Altaïr out of the road. "What—?"

A car roared past, honking madly at Altaïr and sweeping up a flurry of dead leaves and trash in its wake.

Altaïr scrambled away from the edge of the road, and Desmond said, "Those things will kill you if you run out in front of them."

The Assassin eyed the road cautiously. "What was that—'beep-beep'?"

"Beep-bee—?" Desmond was about to ask, before he realized what Altaïr meant. "That was a car."

Altaïr looked down the road, half expecting another car to come out of nowhere. Desmond looked as well, and they crossed the street quickly.

They wandered around town for an hour or two, Altaïr getting strange looks from passerby and Desmond desperately fighting paranoia. The two managed to find a part of town that was largely devoid of pedestrians, and they soon arrived at an empty bus stop. Desmond motioned for Altaïr to wait. "Altaïr, we need to get on the next bus."

Altaïr sat down on the bench, with no idea what a bus was.

The bus showed up on time, and Altaïr looked at it with a mix of skepticism and confusion. "I thought you said that—"

"It's different when you ride in them," Desmond said, exhausted already. He led Altaïr onto the bus, and began searching his pockets for the bus fare.

And remembered that all of his money had been taken from him when he was kidnapped.

He fumbled around in his pockets, hoping that Abstergo had missed even a single coin, but the bus driver beat him to it.

"Go on ahead, buddy; I can see you're having one of those days," the bus driver said to him, gesturing to the empty seats behind him. "I'll take care of it."

Desmond was at loss for words. "T-thanks." He glanced back and remembered Altaïr, and asked "My—"

The bus driver smiled, and said, "I'll take care of him too, don' worry about it."

Giving the driver a look of gratitude, Desmond gladly took a seat near the back of the bus. Altaïr sat obediently beside him, head down. The bus started moving, and Altaïr jumped, but that was it.

Desmond smiled to himself, and was glad that there was still some human decency left in the world.

"So, where ya headed?" the bus driver asked, glancing over his shoulder at his two passengers.

"As far away from here as possible," Desmond said, relaxing as much as he could in the molded plastic seat of the bus. He thought for a second, and added "Northward would be even better."

"I can take ya to the edge of town, but not any farther."

"That's alright; we can make it from there." Desmond said, rubbing his eyes.

"Awful strange clothes your pal is wearin'."

Desmond thought quickly. "He's my… Cousin. He just flew in from the Middle East a few hours ago; he hasn't had a chance to change yet."

"Really? You look more like brothers."

"Yeah, we're told that a lot."

"So, if he just flew in, where's his luggage?"

"With my aunt," Desmond lied, "She and my uncle took it to their hotel in my car, but there wasn't any room left over for us when we loaded it all in, so we decided to take a bus instead. I guess I accidentally left my wallet in my car."

"How'd you end up there?" The bus driver looked a little suspicious.

"Well… I got lost, and we wound up downtown."

The bus driver eyed Altaïr curiously, and asked, "Does he speak English?"

"No, unfortunately; it'd be a lot easier on me if he did."

The bus driver chuckled, and they drove on.

--

It was nearly sunset when Desmond noticed a small hotel approaching from the distance. "Hey, hold on, stop at that Holiday Inn."

The bus screeched to a stop, and the bus driver glanced over at Desmond. "This your aunt's hotel?"

Desmond nodded.

The bus driver smiled, and the door creaked open for them. "Take care now."

"You too," Desmond said, climbing down the stairs wearily. He and Altaïr waved to the bus driver as he drove back toward the heart of the city. "I am going to hell," he muttered to himself.

Altaïr glanced over his shoulder at the Holiday Inn. "Where are we?"

Desmond sighed. "We're outside of a hotel, with no money to rent a room. I guess we're going to have to break in."

Altaïr nodded, unconcerned.

They snuck around to the side of the hotel, and Altaïr promptly began scaling the wall, looking for a room that wasn't occupied. He found one somewhere on the third floor, and gestured for Desmond to come up.

Desmond went up the fire escape.

The two collapsed into the beds of the dark, slightly dirty room, exhausted. Luck seemed to be favoring them today; Altaïr had found a room with two beds, instead of one queen size and a couch-bed.

Desmond stared up at the ceiling as the setting sun played with the shadows on the walls. Vidic had probably figured out that they were gone by now; they'd need to leave and start heading northward again as soon as they woke up.

But that wasn't important right now. Desmond glanced over at his ancestor; Altaïr was already asleep.

Desmond shut his eyes, and drifted off to a dreamless sleep.

--

The next morning, Desmond woke up to Altaïr shaking him violently.

"Wha—?" he said, rubbing his eyes and glancing at the clock. It read 5:24 A.M. "Too early…"

Altaïr pointed out the window, not daring to make a sound.

Cautiously, Desmond looked outside, and gaped in horror.

There was a handful of police cars and an ambulance or two outside, parked haphazardly in the parking lot of the holiday in. That didn't concern him so much as the police officers; they were armored better than the SWAT team, and had nasty looking guns that Desmond suspected to be full of tranquilizers. What's worse was the barely visible logo on the cars, positioned just above the left rear wheel.

Abstergo had found them.

Desmond retreated quickly behind the room, panic rising in him. He began to pace, frequently glancing over to the window.

They couldn't go back to Abstergo, but there seemed to be no way out.

"WE HAVE THE HOTEL SURROUNDED," a loudspeaker said from outside, in a voice that Desmond quickly recognized as Vidic's, "COME OUT PEACEFULLY, MR. MILES, AND NO HARM WILL BE DONE TO YOU OR YOUR PARTNER."

Altaïr grimaced when he heard Vidic's voice, and glanced up at Desmond. "We need to get out."

"I realize that, thanks," Desmond said coldly, before the worried look appeared on his face and he asked, "But _how_...?"

Altaïr looked over to the door. "Can we not leave from any of the doors?"

"They said the place is surrounded."

"Nonsense," Altaïr scoffed, "You cannot fully surround a building." He struggled with the door for a minute, before he let Desmond step in and open it. Altaïr listened intently for a moment, then started down the hall, motioning for Desmond to follow.

Outside, Vidic was getting impatient. "WE WILL GIVE YOU FIVE MINUTES, MR. MILES, BEFORE WE CAPTURE YOU BY FORCE."

Desmond cautiously glanced out of a window on the other side of the building; no cops there. He glanced around for an escape route, found one, and started down the wall. Altaïr followed, his boots barely making a sound when he dropped down beside Desmond.

Desmond and Altaïr snuck down their escape route as Vidic announced that they had two more minutes to complete Abstergo's request. Now he could see the scientist, beside him standing a blonde that could only be Lucy.

Altaïr skirted cautiously around the parked cars, acting as if they could leap out to kill him at any moment. Desmond would've laughed, if he was in any other situation.

The escapees' route led them back behind the police cars and the other cars, when Desmond saw it.

Vidic's car.

Logic told him a move like that was stupid and risky, and could likely get them caught. Also, it had been _years_ since Desmond had last driven a car.

However, Desmond had developed a hatred for Dr. Vidic, and the car tempted him. Not only would the silver Honda sedan be a worthy candidate for a getaway car, but he'd be able to get back at Vidic as well.

Revenge won.

Desmond glanced around to make sure everyone's attention was still on the hotel, and then opened the driver's door. Unsurprisingly, it was unlocked, the keys dangling from the folded-up sun visor.

Jerking open the door to the back seat of the car, Desmond glanced at Altaïr. "Get in!" he hissed.

Altaïr stared at the car hesitantly, but quickly got inside.

Desmond slammed the driver's door and started the car just as Vidic ordered the assembled policemen to raid the building.

Vidic turned around just in time to see his car peal out from its parking space, the tires screeching against the pavement. "Tha—_that's my car!_" he yelled, pointing futilely, "Someone _stole my car!_"

Cautiously, a white-hooded head poked out the right side of the escaping vehicle. Altaïr grinned fiercely at Vidic, shot him the bird, and quickly vanished back inside.

Vidic was horrified, and now the entire security force he had assembled was watching the car—_his_ car—escape. "_THOSE DAMN ASSASSINS STOLE MY CAR!_"

* * *

**_To Be Continued..._**


	7. Chapter 7: The Escape: Part Two

Chapter Seven:

The Escape: Part Two

Within moments, Desmond and Altaïr had shot out of the parking lot and onto the street, merging haphazardly onto the nearest highway and moving into the left-most lane. Desmond had discovered he was extremely rusty at driving a car, after several near misses with other cars; he swerved erratically on the highway, and was glad that no one was really on it at this time of the morning.

After about thirty minutes of driving, Altaïr broke the silence. "Where are we going to go?" he asked hesitantly.

Desmond paused; he hadn't thought that far ahead. Actually, he hadn't thought they would escape from Abstergo.

"…I don't know," he said finally, shrugging wearily, "Canada."

Altaïr frowned in the back seat; Desmond could see him in his rear-view mirror. He opened his mouth, probably to ask what a "Canada" was, but thought the better of it and lay down in the seat instead, too tired to bother asking for an explanation.

Desmond was tired too; he yawned, and glanced in his rear-view mirror to make sure that agents from Abstergo weren't following. The coast was clear.

They drove for another hour or two, Desmond constantly checking to make sure they weren't being followed and that he was driving the legal speed limit; finally, Desmond slowed down enough that he could safely search around Vidic's car one-handedly, making sure to keep an eye on the road and his rear-view mirror. He ended up finding a couple of old receipts, a Power-Bar wrapper, and (more importantly) Vidic's wallet, which held several twenties, three fives, and a handful of ones.

Desmond couldn't help but smile at this good fortune; who would've known that Vidic, of all people, would have helped them escape?

What's better was that he knew _exactly_ what he was going to do with the money; smiling, Desmond gave himself a new grip on the steering wheel and started searching the horizon.

--

"_WELCOME TO MCDONALDS, HOW MAY I HELP YOU_?" the static-y voice said from the loud speaker attached to the giant menu.

Altaïr jumped, startled, while Desmond leaned out the window and replied, "Uh, I'd like a number three with a medium Coke, no mustard or onions, a number seven—actually, change that to two number threes, both with no mustard or onions, but make one of the drinks a bottled water—an extra order of medium fries, and an M&M McFlurry."

"_OKAY, SO THAT'S TWO NUMBER THREES WITH A MEDIUM COKE AND A BOTTLED WATER, A MEDIUM FRIES, AND A MCFLURRY_."

"Yeah."

"_WILL THAT BE ALL?_"

"Yes."

"_THAT WILL BE 16.51. PLEASE DRIVE UP TO THE NEXT WINDOW_."

Desmond moved up in the line at the Drive-Thru window while Altaïr stared at the speaker as if it had turned into a lizard. The Assassin stared for a minute longer, before muttering something containing the words "magic" and "possessed".

Desmond paid and received his food from a guy in his late teens, his face spotted with freckles and acne. "Here's your food," the employee said, handing Desmond the take-out bag and pausing to glance curiously in the back seat.

"Thanks," Desmond said hastily, and was relieved to finally be able to drive away; he didn't want to have to explain his made-up story about Altaïr being his cousin from Saudi Arabia _again_. He gave the bottled water to Altaïr (after opening it, of course), and quickly downed about half of his Coke.

They stopped at a deserted rest stop a couple miles down the road to eat; however, neither of them were complaining that the food had cooled down a bit. Desmond popped open the top of his McFlurry and started dipping his French fries in it as Altaïr started on his Quarter Pounder with Cheese. He paused, and ended up picking out the pickles before he continued eating the burger.

Desmond had only gotten a couple bites out of his sandwich when Altaïr finished his meal. He offered his ancestor the other order of fries, and Altaïr wolfed them down without complaint.

They had finished their meal and gotten back in the car when Desmond noticed a dark green Thunderbird sedan. His heart dropped when he recognized the driver.

Lucy, of all people, had found them.

She got out of her car, slammed the door, and stalked over to Desmond's car. He only stared in shock, and rolled the window down when she knocked on it.

"What the _HELL_ do you think you're doing?!" she snapped.

Several answers came to Desmond's mind—escaping, finding safety, getting the hell away from you and Vidic—but nothing came out of his mouth.

Lucy sighed. "Honestly, Desmond, of all the stupid things for you to do…"

Again, Desmond couldn't form a coherent sentence.

Lucy took a deep breath, and looked at him almost sadly. "Well, if you follow me back peacefully, maybe Vidic won't force you and Altaïr on the Animus…"

"Whoa, hold on," Desmond said, words finally resurfacing, "We're not going back. Not after what happened the other day. No."

Now Lucy just looked irritated. "You have no other choice."

"Yeah, but you do," Desmond said, glancing at the road, "Let us go."

"I—I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"I—"

"Lucy, I don't _care_ if it's your job on the line," Desmond begged, "Just… Just let us go. Please."

Lucy hesitated, but her face hardened. "You don't understand. If I let you go, it's not just my _job_ I'm losing—"

"Lucy, I swear to God, if you don't get out of the way, I'll just drive off. I won't care if I hit you," Desmond said, staring at her menacingly.

"I'd like to see you try," she said, scowling.

"I swear I'll do it."

Lucy crossed her arms, and stalked over to the front of the car, a defiant look on her face.

Desmond revved the engine, to try and get her to bail out.

She wasn't moving.

However, Altaïr was perfectly fine with doing the moving for her.

He slipped out of the car before either Desmond or Lucy noticed, and came up behind Lucy silently. She didn't even have time to react when Altaïr seemingly gently pressed an area of her neck. She ended up collapsing into his arms, her head rolling about limply, and he set her down gently in the back seat.

"She is only unconscious," Altaïr said when Desmond stared back at them with a horrified look on his face, "Do not worry about her. Go."

That didn't make Desmond feel any better. He stared at the road ahead with a growing sense of dread.

"_What have I done?_"

--

Things simply went downhill from there.

"Nngh… My head…" Lucy muttered as her eyes cracked open a slit, "Why does it smell like fast food…"

She slowly sat upright, rubbing her aching forehead, and looked out the window to see the scenery flying by. She then glanced over at Altaïr, recoiled in shock, and finally stared at the back of Desmond's head, awake in a flash. "Are you kidnapping me?!"

"I—" Desmond stammered, "I—well, not intentionally—I—_it never would've happened if you hadn't jumped in front of the car!_"

"Oh, so it's _my_ fault you're kidnapping me?!"

"Technically, yes…"

"I can't _believe_ you, Desmond—"

"Lucy, shut up, or I'll get Altaïr to knock you out again."

She stared at her captors in shock, and then obediently shut her mouth.

Desmond was having a hard time keeping his act together. "Dammit," he muttered.

After a couple minutes, Altaïr noticed Lucy slowly reaching inside her purse for something, and quickly snatched it away. He threw her purse in the front seat, and Desmond glanced at it.

Sitting on the top of Lucy's purse was pepper spray.

If she had gotten around to using it, that would've been bad; God only knows what Altaïr would've done.

After a few more miles, Desmond stared at the horizon in horror; police cars bearing the Abstergo logo were blocking the path ahead. He skidded to a stop as they got dangerously close, and was greeted from behind with more of the cars coming from off-road to cut off their escape route.

He should've known she'd have some sort of a tracker; he didn't know where it'd be, probably in her cell phone, but that didn't really matter now.

Abstergo had found them.

_Again_.

"Hello, Mr. Miles," Dr. Vidic said from over his megaphone as the armored police officers got ready to shoot, "We've elected to give you one last chance. Come out with your hands on your head, and ask Altaïr to do the same. Release Lucy, and we'll make this easy on you."

Desmond glanced around for an escape route.

He found none.

They were trapped.

Slowly, he opened the driver's side door and got out, his hands raised up high.

"Good," Vidic said from the megaphone. Desmond could almost see the smug smile on his face. "Now ask Altaïr to get out, and release Lucy."

Desmond glanced over in the general direction of Vidic's voice, and gestured to Altaïr. The Assassin got out of the car, walked around, and opened the door for Lucy. She got out, snatching her hand away from Altaïr's, and stood by the car, waiting for further instruction. Altaïr moved back to the other side of the car, his hands in the air as well.

Vidic emerged from the crowd, along with a couple security guards Desmond recognized from Abstergo. Lucy stalked over to him, glancing back at Altaïr and Desmond a couple times. Desmond heard Vidic mutter "Are you alright?", and saw Lucy nod sullenly, crossing her arms and hunching her shoulders with a mixture of anger and shame on her face. "Move to the front of the car, Mr. Miles."

Desmond and Altaïr slowly moved to the side of the car closer to Vidic.

Vidic gave some sort of signal, and a couple policemen came up and grabbed Altaïr. "Thank you, Mr. Miles. Now—"

Desmond didn't get to hear his proposal as he whipped out a gun—Lucy's gun, which he had taken from her purse—and pointed it at Vidic. "No, Doc. I'm done going by your terms." He glanced over at the guards by Altaïr, and yelled "Get away from him!" He swung the gun to point at them for a moment, before aiming it back at Vidic.

They let him go, and took a step back.

Vidic's surprise showed clearly on his face.

"Get your cop cars out of the way and let us go, or I'll shoot. I swear to God, I'll shoot you."

Vidic cleared his throat. "There are other scientists, Mr. Miles…"

"Then I'll shoot myself," Desmond said, pointing the gun at his temple, "You can't search my memories if I'm dead, can you?" He hoped that the guards wouldn't notice him shaking so badly; he had never been more scared in his life.

This time, Vidic hesitated. One of the security guards stepped forward. "Now, Desmond," he said, gesturing sincerely, "Let's not do anything rash—"

Almost instinctively, Desmond whipped the gun away from his temple and shot.

The guard clutched his side, doubling over in pain, as red seeped through his fingers. He hadn't been wearing a bullet-proof vest.

In a flash, Altaïr had run up to Vidic and punched him, then dropped to the ground like a sack of rocks as one of the policemen tazed him, writhing as the electric current raced through his body.

Desmond dropped the gun, unable to believe what he had done.

Vidic had whipped out a syringe from nowhere and tried to help the security guards pin down a kicking and punching Altaïr, but only managed to get the Assassin's teeth sunk into his hand.

Desmond had collapsed to his knees, shaking badly. Had he really just shot someone?

He glanced up, and saw Altaïr being loaded onto a stretcher, his body twitching slightly from the after shock of the tazer. His eyes struggled to stay focused, but as he lapsed into unconsciousness, he managed to whisper one thing to Desmond:

"_He'll live_."


	8. Chapter 8: Hopeless

**DUN DUN DUNNNNNN!! Thanks to all of you who reviewed, I really appreciate it!**

**Here's Chapter Eight, which I had a _little_ too much fun writing...**

* * *

Chapter Eight:

Hopeless

Desmond stared at the glass-topped table in front of him, lost in thought. He was in a room that reminded him of the interrogation rooms from crime shows, complete with the handcuffs around his wrists, somewhere deep within the depths of the Abstergo building. He had been forced into the back of a cop car after Altaïr had been taken away by an ambulance, but had succeeded in not causing any trouble for his captors.

No one had come to speak with him yet, apart from Lucy. He had expected her to be mad about the whole kidnapping thing, but she only looked a little sad.

Lucy glanced over to the door, to make sure no one was watching, before telling him, "Altaïr is in stable condition. He's not badly hurt; just a couple scratches and bruises, and the marks from the tazer."

That didn't really make Desmond feel any better. He hunched his shoulders and started examining the stitching on the sleeve of his hoodie, instead of having to look at her.

"…You know, no one else has ever tried to escape before," Lucy said, turning to stare at the wall instead of at Desmond. "Dr. Vidic got hell from his superiors, since you managed to get out." Much more quietly, she added, "And you were so close."

"Hm?" Desmond said involuntarily, glancing up at Lucy.

She turned to leave. "All you had to do," she whispered, "Was drive eleven more miles, and you would've been out of range of Abstergo's trackers. Eleven more miles, and you would've been home free." She glanced back at Desmond. "You were _so_ _close_."

A wave of despair swallowed Desmond as he let the reality sink in. He pulled his hood up over his head and pressed his face against the cool glass of the table, and let his mind go.

Vidic came in some time later, the start of an ugly purple bruise crawling up the side of his face. Desmond glanced up for a moment, before turning to look back at his reflection in the surface of the table.

"Your little plan didn't work so well, did it, Mr. Miles?" Vidic sneered, slamming a heavily-bandaged hand down onto the table. Desmond fought back the urge to smile; at least Altaïr had put up a fight. "You and your pet Assassin are back in our hands, and _this_ time I don't need your permission to put him on the Animus." He glared at Desmond, and added, "Luckily, that man you shot is in stable condition; he'll live to tell the tale."

Desmond didn't reply.

"But, because I am a kind, benevolent man, I will give you a choice," Vidic said, causing Desmond to glance up in surprise. Vidic glared over at him, and continued, "You may either stay here, with your ancestor, or you may leave the premises, and never have to see us, or the Animus, again."

Desmond was startled, and it showed.

Vidic smiled. "That's what I thought." He glanced back at him, and muttered, "I really don't see what Lucy sees in you. If it were not for her urging, you wouldn't get a choice at all."

"Wait," Desmond said, "Lucy asked you to give me a choice?"

"More like pestered me until I agreed," Vidic said coldly, "She can be quite persistent. Now what is your decision, Mr. Miles?"

Desmond stared at Vidic. "I-I need to choose _now_?" He stammered.

"That is preferable."

The options ran through Desmond's head: stay with Altaïr, or leave and never come back.

Stay with Altaïr.

Leave and never come back.

How was he supposed to choose? For the time he had been at Abstergo he had wanted nothing more than to get out, and never have to see Vidic's face again; but he couldn't just leave Altaïr to their mercy. As cheesy as it sounded, he had grown attached to his ancestor.

What's more, Altaïr _trusted_ him. Could he really just get up and leave him behind?

"I—I want to stay," Desmond said finally.

Vidic's eyebrows rose. "Are you sure?"

Desmond nodded.

Vidic was speechless for a moment, before an evil look crossed his face. "You would like to see Altaïr, wouldn't you?"

Desmond said nothing, and turned his attention to his reflection in the table.

"I suppose that he will be happy to hear your decision," Vidic said, smirking. "I'll send him in right away."

Desmond didn't know what to expect, or feel, for that matter. A mixture of surprise, happiness, and confusion crossed his face.

Still smirking, Vidic left.

A few long minutes later, the door slid open once again, and a look of pain, sorrow, and shock crossed Desmond's face.

It was Altaïr, but not the proud Assassin that Desmond had seen last. Now, Altaïr wore the same clothes Desmond did—a white hoodie with the hood pulled down as far as it would go, baggy jeans, and the like. He was handcuffed _and_ shackled, his feet shuffling along the floor when a security guard sporting a nasty black eye shoved him into the room. His movements were slow, lethargic.

But what got to Desmond the most was his eyes; Altaïr's eyes were dull, lacking the spark that Desmond had seen when they had talked about escaping, or when he had to explain to him how a sink worked. They lacked the drive, the fierceness of the Assassin.

Desmond's ancestor sat down slowly in the seat opposite Desmond. Silence reigned between them for a couple minutes.

Desmond gulped. "H-how are you feeling?"

Altaïr glanced up, and rubbed his forehead. "I feel… Strange…" he whispered hoarsely, "Like my limbs have been weighted with lead."

Desmond grimaced. He had been drugged, too.

Silence.

"I—I'm sorry."

Altaïr stared at his hands. "…It was not your fault."

"Yes, it was," Desmond said, burying his face in his arms, "It was me and my stupid idea to take Vidic's car…"

Altaïr rubbed his eyes, but said nothing. Another long pause filled the air.

"I chose to stay."

Altaïr looked up, and snorted. "In comparison to what?"

"Leaving."

Altaïr shook his head. "Do not be a fool; they would not let you leave. You know too much." He met Desmond's eyes, and said, "You would have been killed."

Another break of silence let Altaïr's words sink in.

Desmond swallowed slowly, despite the fact that his mouth had suddenly become very, very dry. "A-are you sure?"

Altaïr nodded, and laid his head down on his arms. "I… I am very tired…"

Desmond smiled sadly. "Yeah, I bet."

A knock came from the door. "Time's up," Vidic said snidely.

"Sorry, Altaïr," Desmond whispered as his ancestor was hauled up by two guards and escorted out of the room.

For the first time, Desmond realized he was exhausted. When Lucy came back in (along with more security guards), he asked her what time it was.

"4:52 A.M.," she said, yawning. Desmond realized that she looked like she could use a couple hours of sleep too.

Desmond was shepherded back to his room—his old room, adjoining the Animus—and was hastily shoved inside. The door slid shut behind him.

Altaïr's mattress wasn't there anymore.

Miserable and full of guilt, Desmond practically collapsed on his bed. He was unconscious as soon as his head hit his pillow.

--

The next morning when he woke up (sore and exhausted from a combination of Assassin antics and driving for hours on end), he started wondering what was going to happen now.

He got up stiffly and hobbled over to the door, trying to ignore his protesting muscles, and peered through the small, mostly decorative glass panes in his door. Surprisingly, the Animus was unoccupied.

Though, Desmond soon realized, most of the important employees were probably taking the day off to sleep. The Animus would lay idle today, and that meant that Altaïr was away from it another day.

Desmond wondered where Altaïr was; probably in his "original" room, some twists and turns down the hallway. He glanced at the clock; it read 8:23 A.M.

He had only slept for three and a half hours; no _wonder_ he felt horrible. Desmond gladly sank back down onto his bed, and fell asleep once again.

There was nothing of interest the entire rest of the day, aside from his meals, and even _those_ were more boring than usual. Perhaps things just _seemed_ duller after the high-excitement of their escape, but Desmond doubted it.

He tried to take a shower, too; however, the water shut off when he was about halfway through washing the shampoo out of his hair. He yelled and cursed, but ended up washing the soap out of his hair in the sink.

That night, Desmond slept awfully; he kept waking up every few hours or so for no good reason, with the exception that his stomach felt twisted with guilt so much that it almost hurt. Eventually, he just gave up, and stared at the shadows on the ceiling until he fell asleep.

--

The next morning was certainly interesting for Altaïr; he felt like he had been kicked by a horse or two, run over by a cart, and had fallen off a large building… all in the same day.

On top of that, his head ached as if he had a hangover, and he _knew_ he hadn't been drinking.

He felt sick, and those feelings just intensified when the door to his room opened, shining bright light in his face and revealing an extremely tired-looking Dr. Vidic. The doctor just seemed to be checking on him, but quickly said something in English that Altaïr didn't understand to one of the guards.

Altaïr curled up in a ball on his bed, his throbbing head in his hands. What had they done to him?

A few minutes later, a security guard came in with breakfast. Altaïr glanced over at it, but didn't eat. He wasn't hungry, and was partially worried that he'd throw it all up anyway.

He had no idea how long he had slept, but felt like he hadn't slept at all.

Some time later, two armored guards arrived at his door. They hauled him off of his bed and half-led, half-dragged him outside. Altaïr squinted against the light as he tried to get his feet under him. After a few tries he was able to shuffle along, the guards clamped onto his elbows.

They eventually arrived at the chamber of the Animus. Altaïr stopped dead in his tracks, the memory of what had happened the last time he had seen it flashing through his mind. He slowly began to back up, but the guards forced him forward, toward the dreaded machine.

Altaïr struggled as much as he could manage, but ended up on his back on the Animus. The guards took it upon themselves to hold down his arms as the holoscreen slid over his head.

Desmond watched with a mixture of curiosity and horror from his room.

Altaïr glanced around frantically, looking anywhere he could for help. He saw Lucy inputting something into a smaller screen near his feet. She met his eyes for a brief moment, and he silently pleaded with her for help.

She quickly averted her gaze, looking upset. Altaïr squirmed, trying to get his arms free from the guards.

The holoscreen—and Altaïr's vision—clouded over, brief designs of hexagons that represented bonded chemical compounds flickering over the pale bluish-teal mist. He shuddered as dark shadows began to gather in the background, familiar buildings rising from the fog. The mist began to fade, and Altaïr was sucked into one of his memories…



"Mama!" a young boy, no more than seven, called. "Papa's home! Papa's coming home!"

A woman dressed in a honey-colored tunic came outside of the small hovel, glanced around for a bit, and looked up to the roof with dark green eyes—Altaïr's eyes. "Altaïr! Come down from there!" she called, brushing wavy, light brown hair out of her eyes.

Young Altaïr peered over the roof of his family's home, his dark brown hair falling in his face. His mouth split into a lopsided grin. "Papa's riding up! I saw his horse!"

Altaïr's mother smiled. "I know, dear. Why don't you come down, so you can greet him when he comes up?"

The boy glanced around, then dropped off the roof haphazardly onto a small pile of hay.

His mother smiled wearily, making herself look older than twenty-two years old.

Altaïr brushed a bit of hay off of his shirt and pants, before racing up to his mother's side. "Do you think Papa will have some more stories to tell me?"

"I'm sure he will, Altaïr." The boy idolized his father, who was a senior Assassin up in Masyaf; Altaïr often told his mother how he wanted to be an Assassin when he grew up, having adventures and protecting Masyaf just like his Papa.

Within a couple moments, Altaïr's father appeared on the top of the hill, riding a chestnut horse with a black mane and white markings. At first, it could've been any Assassin, but Altaïr's mother quickly recognized the pure-white hood of a Master Assassin, and the unique way his weapons were carried; only Altaïr's father tied the straps in that way. Altaïr could barely contain himself; he rarely ever got to see his father anymore.

Altaïr looked much like his father; dark brown hair, sharp nose, fierce eyes. However, his father's eyes were brown, like nutshells, while Altaïr had his mother's eyes.

His father dismounted from his horse, and then raced up to give his son a huge hug. Altaïr grinned and laughed, excited to see his father for the first time in a couple months. His mother sighed in relief; her husband had come back alive.

Altaïr's father set him down on the ground, and stooped over to look his son in the eye. He ruffled Altaïr's hair. "Have you been a good boy for Mama while I've been gone?"

Altaïr nodded enthusiastically.

"Good," his father said, smiling. He rose to his feet and gave his wife a gentle hug, and a kiss on the cheek. "I missed you."

"We missed you, too," Altaïr's mother whispered, blinking back tears.

"Papa," Altaïr asked, "Why's your hand bandaged?"

"Hm?" Altaïr's father said, glancing down at his left hand. "Oh, this! Well, just let me show you…" He flicked his wrist sharply, and a blade slid out, fitting perfectly in the space where his left ring finger would've gone, had it not been cut off. He held it up, and the sunlight glinted off it beautifully.

Altaïr's eyes widened. "Whoa!"

"When did you get that?" Altaïr's mother asked.

"I was promoted about two weeks ago to Grand Master Assassin," Altaïr's father said proudly. He grinned at his son. "That means I'm one of their top men, now."

"Wonderful!" Altaïr's mother said, putting an arm around her husband's waist and making sure to avoid the weapons.

"How about we go inside and eat?" Altaïr's father suggested, glancing over to his horse to make sure that it wasn't eating any valuable plants.

"Yeah," Altaïr said, tugging at his mother's sleeve. "I'm hungry."

Smiling and laughing, the now-complete family went inside.

Altaïr's mother dished up some thick, hearty stew into fairly nice bowls and set them down at their respective places on the floor. Altaïr and his father already had their spoons and loaves of bread, grinning almost identically. "It looks delicious, dear," Altaïr's father said, extending his hands to say grace.

Their dinner wasn't quiet; Altaïr kept asking his father questions bites, his mother having to remind him several times not to speak with his mouth full. After several questions and one quick story, Altaïr's father cleared his throat. "The current class of Novices shall be graduating soon."

Altaïr's mother paused, her spoon halfway up to her mouth. She set it down gently back into the bowl. "And?"

Altaïr had put his spoon down as well, ready to hear more.

"Master Al Mualim is expecting a good-sized class this year," Altaïr's father continued, blowing on a spoonful of stew for a moment and taking a bite. "And I was wondering if you would approve of Altaïr being a part of it."

Altaïr's characteristic grin began to creep across his face, but the look on his mother's face silenced him.

"…Can I, Mama?" he asked hesitantly, glancing over to his mother cautiously. He knew she didn't like Papa being in such danger all the time.

"…I don't see why not," Altaïr's mother said finally, picking up her spoon again with a worried look on her face. "But it is a lot of hard work, and I'd better not hear of you making any trouble for the Master."

Altaïr beamed. "Thank you, Mama! I promise I won't let you down." He started wolfing down the rest of his stew.

"When are you leaving for the stronghold?" Altaïr's mother asked, her eyes on her husband.

"The end of the week," he replied, smiling.

Altaïr's mother looked over to her son, who had finished up his bowl and obediently put it neatly by the wash-bucket. "He will go far."

"Indeed," His father said, taking another bite of his stew.

_Fast forwarding to a more recent memory_…

"It's so… Big…" Altaïr murmured, leaning to the side so he could see the Assassin's Stronghold from behind his father's broad back.

His father chuckled. "That's where you'll be living from now on." He glanced back and added, "Don't lean too far; I don't want you to fall off."

Altaïr nodded, still staring at the huge fortress in front of him, and shifted a few degrees back into the horse's saddle.

"Oy, Siraj!" a gray-hooded Assassin with a nasty scar across his chin and a piece missing from his nose called, jogging up to Altaïr and his father. "Taking your son to the fortress, as well?"

Altaïr's father grinned. "Yes, Omar. Altaïr is old enough now, and has been pestering me for stories of my adventures since he was old enough to ask for them."

Omar laughed. "I just took Khalid up there a few minutes ago. How's Johara?"

"Beautiful, as always," Altaïr's father said, "Though she worries too much."

"Your father has a keen eye, Altaïr," Omar said, smiling crookedly, "I hope you've inherited his sight."

"Apparently he's inherited my lack of fear for heights," Altaïr's father snorted, "Johara had to chase him off the roof when I rode up!" The two laughed as he gently nudged the horse, and they started back toward the fortress.

"Peace and safety, Siraj," Omar said, waving before returning to his business.

"And to you, brother."

Through the rest of the ride, Altaïr's father stopped to say hello to a couple different Assassins, all of whom had gray hoods; the sign of a lower rank. It was after they had walked inside the fortress when another Master Assassin jogged up to them; his hand was bandaged up, as well.

"Peace and safety, Talib," Altaïr's father said to the man, who returned the traditional greeting. After a moment, they broke out into huge smiles.

"No need to pretend to be humble anymore, Siraj," Talib said, laughing, "You got promoted last month, no? Be proud; you've earned it."

"And you as well," Altaïr's father said. "How did your son react when he saw?"

"Malik was ecstatic," Talib said, "He couldn't wait to come up; he wouldn't stop talking about it all week."

Altaïr's father laughed. "Altaïr was quite loud too; every chance he got he asked for a story of our adventures."

Talib grinned, and shook his head. "Indeed, this year's recruits will be the most interesting yet." He glanced over at Altaïr, and added, "They are going to have the initiation briefing at about noon; I'd hurry, if you want to get Altaïr registered in enough time to make it."

"Thank you," Altaïr's father said to his long-time friend, "Peace and safety."

"And to you as well."



Lucy stared at Altaïr's vitals intently; anything to distract her from the many levels of wrong that were happening in Altaïr's head.

"_Why_ are we looking through Altaïr's childhood?" she demanded, glaring over her shoulder at Vidic.

He was staring at his computer screen intently, watching some of Altaïr's most treasured memories as if it was a movie he had rented. He glanced up, but didn't answer.

"This isn't right…" Lucy muttered as she glanced back at her display screen. Altaïr's heart rate, breathing, and other major vitals were displayed neatly at the top of the screen. Below that was Altaïr—young Altaïr—and his father, walking to some yet-unknown destination. The voices that she heard in her earphones were translated, of course; Altaïr heard his memories in Arabic, but Lucy had programmed the Animus to translate it to English for her and Vidic.

"I suppose you could say I am curious to see how one of the most infamous Assassins known among us was raised," Vidic said finally, his eyes never leaving his computer screen as he took a sip of coffee from his mug. "It's quite intriguing, really…"

Lucy rolled her eyes, all the while wondering what was going through Altaïr's head; he looked pained, if anything.

"Make sure he stays stable," Vidic warned, "It would be quite unfortunate if something happened to him."

"Don't remind me," Lucy muttered under her breath. Once again, she silently apologized to Altaïr, before turning her attention back to her view screen.



Altaïr was now standing in the midst of a large group of boys about his age, waiting for Master Al Mualim to initiate them into the Brotherhood. He had changed into the standard uniform for a Novice Assassin; a white shirt which was slightly too big for him, a gray over-tunic, gray pants, leather boots, and a gray hood. His hood was down over his shoulders, for the moment; his father had told him that he wasn't allowed to put it up until he was given the signal by the Master.

He was anxious and fidgety, along with the other forty or so boys that accompanied him in the courtyard. After what seemed like forever, Al Mualim appeared at the top of the balcony.

"Greetings, future Assassins," he boomed as the church bells began to ring for twelve noon. A few birds leapt into the sky, flapping noisily to somewhere quieter.

"You have gathered here today because you wish to become one of our order," Al Mualim continued, scanning the recruits with a careful eye. "You come from many backgrounds; some of you, your fathers were Assassins before you, and you wish to follow in their footsteps. Others, you were inspired by the deeds of the Brotherhood to action. Whatever the case, I must warn you; the path of an Assassin is paved in death. Whether it is your death, or the death of the enemies of the Holy Land, shall rely on your own skill, and if you keep to the Creed." He turned abruptly, and stared down at the children. "An Assassin is without fear, without regard for his own life; he would gladly die for his people, or for his Creed. Our Creed is more precious to us than our own lives; we live, work, and die by its three tenants. One; stay your blade from the blood of an innocent. Two; you are a blade in the crowd, do not reveal yourself. And three; never, under any circumstances, compromise the Brotherhood. Three simple tenants, which you must obey. Failure to do so will cost you your privileges, your position, or your _life_." He paused, and added, "If there are any who cannot abide by those tenants, leave now, for this is your only warning."

There was a quiet murmur among the crowd, but none of the boys left.

"Congratulations," Al Mualim said, smiling and extending his arms over the group, "Raise your hoods in pride; welcome to the Brotherhood."

There was a rustle of fabric among the boys as each of them pulled their gray hood up over their head; the senior Assassins, who had stood silently around the edges of the courtyard, promptly burst into applause. Altaïr quickly spotted his father; he was standing next to Talib, grinning.

The day he had waited for had finally come; he was an Assassin.

_Fast forwarding to a more recent memory_…

"Hey! Cut it out!" a young Novice Assassin cried as he was roughly shoved into a short stone wall by a much bigger Novice. It was a couple weeks after Altaïr was initiated into the Brotherhood; already, in that time, he had learned to spot trouble, and what to do about it.

Altaïr strode up to the two confidently. "Stop it," he snapped to the bigger boy, "What'd he ever do to you?"

The bigger boy leered at Altaïr, his fist dropping from a punching position to his side. He laughed dryly. "You can't fight me. It'd be disgraceful when I win."

"And yet you're still picking on someone smaller than you," Altaïr retorted.

The bigger boy scowled, and returned to intimidating the smaller boy. "Bug off."

Altaïr's punch hit the bigger boy square in the jaw; he let out a yell, and tackled Altaïr. A couple other Novices noticed the scuffle and quickly gathered around to watch, while the boy who had been dangerously close to getting a black eye desperately tried to break up the fight before one of the teachers noticed.

Who noticed, however, was far worse than any of the teachers; Al Mualim himself came and pried Altaïr and the other boy apart, both of them panting angrily and glaring at each other. "Come with me. _Now_." He snarled. Glancing up at the other boy, he added, "You too."

This did not bode well for Altaïr; in addition to whatever punishment the Master had waiting, he was bound to get an earful from his father as well.

All three of the boys were now sitting in wooden chairs, staring down at their hands while Al Mualim fumed. "Fighting amongst you already? Shameful. What are your names?"

"Hamid," the bigger boy growled.

"Altaïr."

"Malik," the boy on the end said quietly.

"You," Al Mualim said, pointing at Malik, "Tell me what happened."

"Well," Malik muttered, "He was about to punch me and then Altaïr came in and told him to cut it out, and Hamid got mad and then they started fighting."

"Who threw the first punch?"

Malik hesitantly pointed at Altaïr.

Al Mualim scowled. "Hamid, I am sick of warning you; you will be beaten, and stripped of your position as an Assassin." Hamid looked almost indifferent, but Al Mualim wasn't done. "Altaïr, for throwing the first punch, you will help the women in the kitchen wash the plates after dinner."

"But—" Malik protested, before Al Mualim cut him off. "Quiet, or you will be washing dishes with him. Malik, you are dismissed."

Malik promptly got up and left. Al Mualim watched him leave, then gave Altaïr a brief lecture before dismissing him.

After dinner, Altaïr was led down to the kitchens, where he was placed in front of three wash bins, one full of water with sand in the bottom for scrubbing, the other filled with clean water for rinsing. He was given a stack of dirty plates equal to his height, and grudgingly rolled up his sleeves and got to work.

He was somewhere done with the first five or so when he heard a voice behind him. "Um… Hi, Altaïr."

Altaïr glanced over his shoulder; it was Malik, the boy from earlier.

"Hi."

"I just wanted to say, thanks," Malik stammered, "I-I couldn't have fought him off by myself."

Altaïr smiled to himself. "Heh. No problem."

Malik glanced over Altaïr's shoulder at the wash bins. "Erm… Need any help with that?"

Altaïr gladly moved over, to give Malik some room to work. They talked as they worked, and got done twice as fast as if Altaïr had done it alone. From that day forth, they were best friends.

_Fast forwarding to a more recent memory_…

"It's easy, Altaïr," Altaïr's father said soothingly, "Don't worry about it."

Altaïr peered down nervously at the pile of hay three stories below where he now sat with his father. He knew that every Novice Assassin had either felt the same way he felt now earlier in the week, or would feel this way sometime during the next. But, even so, it was a _long_ way down, much farther down than the roof of his house to the ground.

"It'll be over before you know it," Altaïr's father continued, "And I'll be right there beside you the entire time; I won't let you get hurt."

Even with his father's comforting words, Altaïr couldn't help but shiver.

"Trust me, Altaïr. It isn't called a 'Leap of Faith' for nothing."

Altaïr looked up at his father, and nodded silently. He had to get it over with _sometime_.

Altaïr's father smiled reassuringly and gently took Altaïr's arm, steadying him. "Try to do as I do, and don't close your eyes. That could be dangerous in the future, if you get into the habit. And do not be afraid; I am with you the entire time."

Altaïr nodded absently, staring straight ahead.

"On my count, jump with me. One…"

Altaïr tensed, and glanced over at his father, who was amazingly calm.

"Two…"

Altaïr stole one last glace at the ground, so far below. _Here goes nothing_.

"…Three."

They leapt into the air, Altaïr's father gracefully, Altaïr with an uncertainty that came from not knowing what he was doing. You could only study about the Leap of Faith so much; performing it was an entirely different matter.

Altaïr and his father soon found themselves buried in a pile of hay, the jump over. Altaïr's father helped him up, and gently brushed some hay that had stubbornly stuck to Altaïr's hood. "That wasn't so bad now, was it?"

Altaïr nodded shakily, before breaking into a grin.

_First flight_.

_Fast forwarding to a more recent memory_…

The clang of swords filled the air as the two young Assassins fought in the ring; it was an even match, with neither of the two giving more ground than they gained, with nearly every slash and stab parried with total accuracy. Neither was giving way to the other, which resulted in their teacher finally calling the match to a stop.

"From now on, Altaïr, Malik," their teacher said, "I am assigning you new sparring partners. You two should not be allowed to train with each other any longer."

"Why not?" Altaïr asked. It had been two, maybe three years since he had been initiated; he now sported a rather dashing scar across his lips, which had progressed into the final stages of healing.

"You two know each other too well," their teacher said, exasperated, "You match each others moves so well I would've sworn you had choreographed it before the fight; you two hardly ever get hits in anymore. You need new partners; otherwise it would be like you're fighting your shadow."

Well, you couldn't argue with logic.

There was a commotion as an Assassin with a bloodied arm and a wild-looking horse rode into the Stronghold. "There's been an attack at the southern border," he said as soon as he caught his breath, "Templars."

Other Assassins quickly grabbed their weapons and mounted horses, most riding double. Altaïr and Malik's teacher cancelled the rest of their lesson, but instructed them to follow far behind in order to help them clean up the bodies. The Novices walked, of course; all the senior Assassins had quickly taken the horses in order to get to the battle as fast as they could.

Altaïr was a little worried; his home was on the southern edge of Masyaf. He hoped his mother was alright.

When the Novices finally arrived, the battle was won; the surviving Assassins were piling the bodies of their brethren on one cart, the bodies of the Templars on the other. There were seven dead, twelve wounded; the senior Assassins were already tending to the wounded, leaving just the dead. The Novices silently got to work.

However, Altaïr noticed one of the fallen, a Master Assassin from the white hood. He had a nasty sword wound on his chest; he was probably killed almost instantly.

When Altaïr went over to pick up the man, he stopped dead in his tracks. "Father…?"

Some of the senior Assassins glanced his way, then returned to their business, shaking their heads sadly. The first death was always the hardest.

Altaïr had gone pale. "F-father?" he said, not really believing his eyes as he jogged over to his father's body. He knelt beside it and stared, shocked; it was, indeed, his father, mouth slightly open, eyes closed as if sleeping. And perhaps he would be, if it weren't for the gaping hole in his chest.

Everything seemed so unreal; his father, dead? Altaïr tried to fight the tears—Assassins weren't supposed to show much emotion, much less tears—but he couldn't.

Not with his father lying dead on the ground before him.

Malik had walked over. "Altaïr? Are you—oh, God."

Altaïr glanced up over at Malik, the tears cutting through the dust on his face.

Silently, Malik helped Altaïr pick up his father's corpse, and put it onto the cart in a place of honor, where no other bodies would lie on it. Then a thought hit Altaïr. "My mother…"

Without thinking, Altaïr sprinted off in the direction of his house. Some of the other Novices called to him, tried to give chase, but the senior Assassins stopped them.

_Please, God, if you're listening, not her too_._ Please, not my mother_.

He saw the smoke far before he saw the wreckage; his home, the surrounding homes of his neighbors, had been torched by the Templars in their attack.

Gone. All of it, gone.

His composure didn't matter to him anymore; his father was dead, his mother probably dead as well. Altaïr sunk to his knees, and sobbed.

Malik tracked him down about an hour later; as it turned out, Malik's father had been seriously wounded in the attack. He wasn't expected to survive the night.

The two silently walked back to the Assassin's Stronghold, the scars of battle already on their hearts.



The holographic screen slid silently from over Altaïr's head. He cracked open his eyes hesitantly, half-expecting to wake up looking at the sky of Masyaf.

But it was only the ceiling of the Abstergo building, trapping him away from any comfort he might have had.

The armed security guards half-helped, half-dragged him off of the Animus. Altaïr was so stiff, he could almost hear his muscles creaking.

He glanced over at Lucy; she looked extremely upset. Dr. Vidic said something to her in English, and she glared at him.

Altaïr was escorted back to his room in a haze; nothing really registered, until he felt an unfamiliar sting at the corners of his eyes.

He hadn't cried since the day he lost his parents, but he couldn't stop the silent tears that dripped down his face.


	9. Chapter 9: Emergency

**DUN DUN DUNNNN. Hey guys, sorry for the week long wait, but I had a couple things I needed to add in this chapter that I hadn't typed in before.**

**On an unrelated note, Monday is my birthday. Yayyy me. **

**So _I'm_ giving a present to you guys: Chapter Nine! The ninth out of ten. One more chapter and it's finished. D:**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter Nine:

Emergency

Desmond watched the guards haul Altaïr off the Animus from his room. He didn't need Eagle Vision to see the fear on Altaïr's face when he had been brought up, eight or so hours ago.

He sat back on his bed, angry and upset and, most of all, riddled with guilt. If he had driven eleven more miles, _eleven more damn miles_, Altaïr wouldn't be going through this right now.

Lucy came in some time later with his food. Desmond glanced up at her and was taken aback. "Lucy, are you _crying_?"

"No," she sniffed.

"What happened?"

"Nothing," she said, wiping an eye with the back of her hand.

"Are you okay?" Desmond asked, genuine concern in his voice.

"Y-yeah, it's just…"

"Just what? You can tell me."

Lucy glanced at him, then back out the door. "It's just—it's _not right_." She sniffed, and continued, "We shouldn't have been looking at those memories."

Desmond pulled out the chair from under his desk, and Lucy sat down in it, wiping her eyes. "I—I _told_ him we shouldn't, but he never listens…" she glanced up at Desmond and said, "We were looking at his _childhood,_ dammit, and—" She sniffed, barely holding back a sob.

Lucy wiped her eyes and continued, "Vidic—oh, I don't know _what_ he was thinking, making Altaïr relive that last memory."

"Wait, what?" Desmond said uncertainly, caught off-guard.

"Altaïr—he was just a Novice and—there was an attack, and _he_ _found his father's body_, for Christ's sake." Lucy broke into a sob, but quickly wiped her eyes and sniffed back the tears. "H-he had to pick it up and put it in the cart… The poor guy, having to see that again…"

"How is he?"

"I—I don't know, he left looking alright, but who knows what happened after that," Lucy said quietly. "I don't even know if he'll be able to handle an Animus session tomorrow, with all the things that are going on in his head. Not to mention that we didn't even get any information on the—" She stopped herself, glancing quickly at one of the hidden cameras. "I-I shouldn't have told you that." She wiped her eyes again, examined the gray smudge on the back of her hand, and muttered, "Great, and to top it all off, I look like a raccoon."

She shakily got up from her chair and said, "I-I have to go."

Desmond stood up, worried. "Could I see Altaïr in the morning?"

"Maybe. I doubt it, though." She glanced back at him, and whispered, "Try and get some rest."

"Yeah," Desmond said quietly, more to himself than Lucy.

--

Altaïr's head throbbed, even worse than it had that morning; he was downright miserable. The pain from his memories—the memories of his father in particular—seemed to make his headache worsen. His heart had ached when he saw the memory of when he had first met Malik; he had lost that as well, and still did not know how he could ever repair the damage between them.

Would he ever even see Malik again? Altaïr would've been glad to see Malik right then; he would've been glad to see _anybody_, even Robert de Sable.

Dr. Vidic brought in food, but Altaïr didn't eat. He had long since lost his appetite.

There was a cup of water, though; Altaïr drank it, trying to relieve his mouth of the dry, cottony feeling. It didn't work very well.

The one thing he could rely on was his bed; he sank down onto it gratefully and quickly descended into a dreamless sleep.

When Altaïr woke up the next morning, breakfast was already on his desk; he took a bite or two of cereal, but nothing more. He ended up dozing off, only to be rudely shaken awake by the armed guards and dragged to the Animus again. He only made a half-hearted attempt to resist this time, more to try and convince himself he still could than out of necessity.

He felt ill; his aching head hadn't gotten any better from last night. The sunlight pouring through the giant glass window in the Animus's chamber made his headache worse; he cringed and quickly shaded his eyes in the hood of his hoodie. Luckily, it was quiet in the Animus's chamber; if there had been any sort of loud noise, Altaïr would've been afraid his head would explode.

He laid down on the Animus with only a mild look of terror in his eyes; soon, the familiar holographic screen slid over his head and plunged him into another memory…



"So… What do you say?"

Altaïr had aged since the last memory; here stood a boy of fourteen or fifteen, with legs that seemed too long for his body and a couple scraggly hairs on his chin. Altaïr still wore a gray hood, though he now possessed a wondrous collection of weapons that silently told them how much he had progressed in rank.

The girl he was speaking to was only a half-inch shorter than him, with dark, wavy brunette hair that reached the bottom of her shoulder blades and warm brown eyes. She glanced over her shoulder at the door to her house, and said, "I don't know…"

Altaïr flashed a nervous, lopsided grin that strikingly resembled his father's. "Aw, come on, Ada…"

Ada glanced over her shoulder at the house again, before running up to the door and informing her mother that she'd be walking to Masyaf, and wouldn't be home until some time later. She smiled shyly as the two set off toward Masyaf. "You know, you're lucky that it was my mother who was home; if it was my father, he would've checked outside before letting me go, and you'd be chased off our property with the hounds."

"I would hide on the roof, then," Altaïr said, grinning, "I was not named 'the Flying One' for nothing."

Ada laughed, and slipped her hand into Altaïr's.

_Fast forwarding to a more recent memory_…

Altaïr and Ada walked slowly back up the path to Ada's home, talking and laughing as the setting sun turned Altaïr's robes a golden yellow. They had spent the day prowling the streets of Masyaf, getting amused looks from both senior Assassins and community members alike. Altaïr couldn't remember having this much fun since when he and Malik had accidentally let the carrier pigeons loose in the stronghold and had spent hours trying to catch them.

He had also discovered that Ada had the prettiest laugh he had ever heard; consequently, he tried hard to make her laugh as much as possible.

They stopped about twenty feet from Ada's house, silent for a minute to enjoy the breeze, still warm from the earlier heat of the sun. "I really had fun today, Altaïr."

"Heh, me too," he said, flashing her a smile. "Maybe we can do it again sometime?"

"I'd like that," she said, smiling shyly.

At that moment, the door to Ada's house flew open and a rather tall, thin man stepped outside, the leads of two excitedly barking dogs clutched in his hand. He narrowed his eyes when he saw Altaïr, and the edge of his thin moustache twitched.

Altaïr honestly didn't see any resemblance between Ada and her father.

"Run!" Ada whispered, barely suppressing a laugh, at the same moment her father let go of the dogs.

Altaïr sprinted back to where his horse was tethered, mounting it in a flying leap as the dogs, baying and howling, bounded after him. He waved goodbye to Ada, before leaping his horse over a fence and galloping back to the Stronghold.

_Fast forwarding to a more recent memory_…

Altaïr looked over the scrap of paper carefully, trying to somehow burn the words further into his mind than memorizing did. The first few assignments they were sent to do usually determined the rest of their lives; whether you were meant to go out in the field or stay behind at the Stronghold, teaching the younger Assassins.

He did _not_ want to be one of those who stayed behind.

"Honestly, Altaïr, you're going to do yourself more harm than good," Malik said, yawning. They had been put on this mission as joint partners, in order to test their ability to work as a team. "You need to get some sleep before the mission tomorrow; I don't want you falling asleep on your horse." Grinning wickedly, Malik added, "_Again_."

Altaïr shot him a look, but smiled and put the information away. He stretched out on the carpets provided to them in the Bureau, and stared up at the stars. "Yes, that was kind of humiliating… Sleep would be nice."

Malik laughed quietly, and they fell asleep.

The next morning the two got up as the sun rose. They quickly set off across the rooftops, heading toward the spot on the map where they were supposed to capture an "artifact" to bring back to the Stronghold. There were, of course, senior Assassins to try and block their way, but Altaïr and Malik managed to avoid the worst of them and eventually scrambled to the side of a tall tower.

"It's up there," Altaïr said, craning his neck to try and see the top. "I think there's a wooden beam up there; it's probably a view point."

Malik nodded, and noticed the senior Assassins who had climbed up to the roof to try and corner them. "Go. I'll handle them."

Altaïr didn't need to be told twice; he practically shot up the side of the tower, and was quickly out of reach while Malik occupied the Assassins below.

Before long, Altaïr started glancing over his shoulder to see the ground; he was about three quarters of the way up, and already higher than he had ever gone before.

He reached the top in good time, to see that the "artifact" that he was supposed to capture was…

A flag. Just your standard, average flag. They had dozens of them hanging around Masyaf.

Vaguely irritated, Altaïr sighed and stuffed the flag into his sash, keeping it from flying out. He crept to the end of the beam, and glanced down.

Calmly, he stood up on the beam, remembering all he had been taught; and he leapt.

Malik and the senior Assassins he was battling flashed by quickly; he could've sworn he saw Malik smile, before he landed with a "FWUMPH" in the pile of hay. He quickly got out and located their horses just as Malik sprinted up behind him, chased by the senior Assassins.

As they rode back to Masyaf, Altaïr told Malik about the "artifact". "Just a stupid flag," he growled, "There's a hundred of them all around Masyaf. We could've gotten one without being chased around Damascus by our seniors."

"There is probably a reason he's done it," Malik said patiently, "Just as there is a reason for all the other training we do. We will just have to see." He paused, and added, "Though something a _little_ more impressive probably would've worked better for me."

"No kidding," Altaïr muttered, causing Malik to laugh.

_Fast forwarding to a more recent memory_…

Al Mualim inspected the flag Altaïr and Malik had brought. After poring over it as if it were a valuable book, he said, "Well done, my students. You have passed this test."

Altaïr and Malik bowed to him respectfully, and Altaïr took the opportunity to ask, "Master, why the flag? There are plenty of them around the Stronghold, and…"

"I chose using this flag for your training because it _would_ be so easy to get a replacement," Al Mualim said, interrupting Altaïr. "You may not have noticed, but _this_ flag is marked slightly different than the flags I have around the Stronghold; that is to keep senior Assassins from telling the young ones like yourselves where they can get an easy win. But being an Assassin is not easy; you cannot find a replacement for a true target. So, by bringing back the correct flag, you have proved to me that you are willing to follow my instructions, despite the instructions of others around you. You are worthy to be sent into the cities to protect our people." He smiled. "Congratulations."

Altaïr still was slightly irritated, but Malik nodded sagely. The two thanked Al Mualim and bowed deeply, before their Master said, "You are dismissed."

"See? I told you he had a reason," Malik said, grinning.

"Yes, I suppose," Altaïr said, flopping down on the first bench he saw. "I still think such a drill was pointless."

"Perhaps a little bit."

_Fast forwarding to a more recent memory_…

"Congratulations once again, my faithful students," Al Mualim said to the two kneeling Assassins in front of him, "I cannot begin to express my pride. Only you have so far expressed the desire to excel at your studies. Those who work hard, I reward." He picked up two bundles of white off of his desk. "You have proved to me you are deserving of your rank, and far, far more. Remove your hoods."

Altaïr and Malik, both about seventeen or eighteen, stood calmly and took off their hoods. Not simply put their hood down, so their Master could see their full face; they removed it all and held it in their arms.

"I have the honor today of presenting you with these," Al Mualim said quietly, "A gift reserved for only my greatest students." He handed each of them the bundle; the uniform of a Master Assassin. "Do not abuse your power; my faith is in you. Don your new hoods."

Altaïr and Malik picked up the snow-white hood from the top of the neatly folded stack of clothes. It was nearly identical to their other one, with the exception of color, but it was strangely beautiful; with this, they would become some of the most powerful, most dangerous men in Masyaf.

They put them on, the hoods down.

"Raise your hoods, brothers; I name you as Master Assassins."

Altaïr and Malik silently flipped their hoods up, both of them barely restraining grins.

"Peace and safety, Altaïr, Malik," Al Mualim said quietly, bowing to them.

"And to you as well," the two new Master Assassins said in unison, returning the bow. Excitedly, they turned to leave.

"Wait," Al Mualim interrupted, "I have one more thing to add."

Altaïr and Malik nodded, and stood reverently before their Master. Had they earned another side honor to go with their promotions today?

"There is one last rank above Master Assassin," Al Mualim said slowly. He sat down at his desk, and continued, "No one in several years has held that rank. I warn you; it takes strict training and discipline. In addition, you only have one chance to pass my course. If you fail, you are forbidden to try again." He glanced up at them, and said, "You two have proved to be my greatest students in many years, however. I would be honored if you were willing to undertake this task, as well."

Altaïr perked up a bit, while Malik frowned slightly.

"…Just something for you to think about," Al Mualim said quickly, getting up from his chair and closing the book he had in front of him, "Please inform me if you wish to know more. You are dismissed."

Altaïr and Malik left, grinning excitedly under the shadow of their new hoods. "What do you think he meant, a rank above Master Assassin?" Altaïr asked Malik.

"I don't know," Malik said, "It sounds dangerous; he seemed like he didn't really want to tell us, because we could get seriously hurt if it went wrong."

"I wonder what it is," Altaïr said wistfully, staring at the sky. "I think I'll ask more about it tomorrow."

"Alright," Malik said, "You do that, but I won't follow."

"Are you sure?" Altaïr said teasingly, "Could you stand it if I was a rank higher than you?"

"Of course," Malik said, scowling.

Altaïr stared back up at the sky, making a mental note to try and see Al Mualim as soon as possible.

_Fast forwarding to a more recent memory_…

"You have gone so far in the last few months, Altaïr," Al Mualim said quietly. "I could not be more proud of you right now."

Altaïr glanced back at his left hand; could he do it?

"However, this choice is not mine to make; you must make it." Al Mualim gently pressed his ceremonial dagger into Altaïr's hand. "If you cannot do it, then leave now. If you can…" He produced a dark-wooded mahogany box, and opened it. Inside was the most honored weapon of the Assassins; the Hidden Blade.

Altaïr stared at it. It was magnificent; these last few months, he had started training with a stick tied to his wrist, to mimic the presence of the Blade.

He wanted it so badly; its deadly silence, its power.

He glanced down at the golden dagger in his hand. It seemed to glitter mockingly in the light, daring him to use it.

Altaïr took a deep breath to steady his nerves, and gripped the handle of the dagger. It was now or never.

He slammed it down with all his strength.

--

Altaïr's head swam and he had to focus hard on the Master's words to keep himself from collapsing. "Well done, Altaïr, well done. In honor of your new rank, I give to you a new name; your father died protecting our borders, and you have stepped up to go further than he. From this day forth you shall be the Son of None, free to forge your own destiny." Al Mualim smiled, and said, "You are dismissed."

--

Malik paced outside of the giant doors to the Keep. Altaïr had asked him to wait for him there while he performed his last initiation. With luck, Altaïr would come out victorious, not hanging his head in shame.

After what seemed like forever, the doors opened; Altaïr stumbled out, cradling his left arm awkwardly.

"How did it go?" Malik asked quickly.

Without saying a word, Altaïr smiled weakly and held up his left hand; the ring finger was missing, its stump heavily bandaged and beginning to stain red.

Malik grinned in reply, but his smile disappeared when Altaïr collapsed onto him for support. He quickly put his friend's arm around his shoulders and helped Altaïr stagger to the nearest bench before he passed out.

_Fast forwarding to a more recent memory_…

"What is _with_ you?" Ada said, staring at Altaïr. "Ever since you got that—that _blade_ you've been acting like a—"

"Like an ass?" he finished for her, glaring, "Is that what you think of me, Ada? That I'm an ass?"

"With the way you've been acting lately, yes," she shot back, "I saw how you treated that poor beggar in the square. Would it have killed you to give her a coin?"

"She could be working for her coin instead of pestering honorable citizens for theirs," Altaïr snapped.

Ada stared at him in exasperation. "What happened to you, Altaïr? You used to be so kind to everyone."

"_Nothing_ has happened to me. I think _you're_ the one who's changed, Ada."

"Listen, Altaïr," Ada said, glaring at him, "I don't know what's gotten into you, but I don't like it. You need to cut it out, or I'll—"

Altaïr snorted. "You'll do what? _Leave_? Then fine, leave. I don't care."

Ada took in a deep breath. "Fine. Maybe I will."

"Go ahead. It won't affect me."

Ada nodded, turned on her heel, and stalked back to her house.

Altaïr watched her go, then mounted his horse and rode it as hard as he could back to Masyaf.

_Fast forwarding to a more recent memory_…

Altaïr rode quietly back to Ada's house. He felt bad; she hadn't deserved the way he had yelled at her, and she was right; he had changed, and just been too caught up in the excitement of his recent promotion to notice.

He knew this because he had spent all night thinking about it.

He also had spent most of the morning thinking about how to apologize.

Altaïr dismounted at the fence of Ada's property, and walked up to the house. He knocked on the door, and was answered by her father.

Great. Of all people.

"Excuse me," Altaïr said, trying to be as polite as he could manage, "Is Ada there?"

Her father scowled. "No, she's not. Now get off my land before I send my dogs after you."

"Oh. Thank you." Altaïr murmured, before the door was slammed in his face.

As he was about to mount his horse, Ada's mother confronted him. "I'm afraid my husband speaks the truth, Altaïr. Ada isn't here."

"Then where is she?" Altaïr asked, concerned.

"You mean she didn't tell you?" Ada's mother said, puzzled, "She left at dawn to start a term as one of the local noblewomen's maidservants. She meant to tell you yesterday; did it slip her mind?"

Altaïr felt his heart sink into the pit of his stomach. "No, she didn't tell me."

"I'm sorry, dear." Ada's mother said, turning to walk back to the house, "She was all worked up about leaving yesterday night."



The rest of the synchronization went smoothly; there were no more major problems, and Altaïr stumbled off the Animus. His legs were shaking; he almost fell to his knees and had to be supported the rest of the way to his room by the security guards. He passed out almost as soon as he got to his room; the next thing he knew, one of the guards was cautiously shaking him awake to show him that his dinner had arrived.

Altaïr took a couple bites of his food, but quietly went to sleep directly after that.

--

The next morning Desmond woke up to Vidic hovering over him.

This hadn't happened in quite a while, so Desmond had quickly snapped awake and barely stopped himself from saying "Do not want!".

"What's the matter, Doc?" he said cautiously, not wanting to make Vidic angry; he seemed like he was in a bad mood.

"Your ancestor isn't eating." Vidic said coldly.

"And that's _my_ fault?"

"You can speak with him. Come with me, and convince him to eat."

"Or what?" In truth, Desmond was extremely worried; he hoped Altaïr had a plan, otherwise this wouldn't end well.

"Or we start force-feeding your ancestor," Vidic snapped, "We can do this the easy way, Mr. Miles—"

"Yeah, okay Doc, I get it," Desmond said defensively, getting out of bed reluctantly.

He was quickly escorted over to Altaïr's room, but that didn't stop him from pestering Vidic a little bit more. "Why the arrangement of rooms, Doc? Wouldn't it be easier for you guys if you had put Altaïr in my room and—"

"We kept you in your original room so that we could make sure you weren't roaming around the building while we tested Altaïr," Vidic said, his patience completely running out. "Get in there and convince him to start eating." He rudely shoved Desmond inside of Altaïr's room, and shut the door.

Altaïr was curled up on his bed, his head in his hands. Desmond cleared his throat quietly and Altaïr glanced up at him.

He looked horrible; he had dark circles under his eyes, and his skin had paled a little bit. His lips were chapped, and he looked exhausted. "Desmond…?" he whispered, his voice hoarse.

"H-hey, Altaïr."

Altaïr nodded silently, then quietly laid his back down on his hands.

"…How are you feeling?"

Altaïr groaned quietly. It was enough.

"Altaïr, you have to eat. The Animus is taking too much out of you."

"I am not hungry."

"Look, I know you're upset with me and all, but—"

"_I said, I am not hungry_."

Desmond hesitated.

"I feel very ill. I do not want to eat; it would probably make it worse," Altaïr explained quietly.

"Yeah, but… you need this food for energy, Altaïr. The Animus is really taking a lot out of you."

Altaïr said nothing.

"Please… For me."

Altaïr gently lifted his head, and stared at Desmond for a long moment. He shifted into a sitting position and took the cereal.

Desmond couldn't smile. Not with his ancestor looking so miserable before him, eating his breakfast only because he asked.

Vidic came in the moment Altaïr finished, having the guards escort the both of them back towards the Animus; Desmond was shepherded into his room, where he was promptly locked in.

That pissed him off; he had just gotten to see his ancestor in two days, and was already shut away from him. He cursed himself for not driving fast enough to cover those last eleven miles. Again.

The Animus session started fairly well, but sometime after the first hour or two, something went horribly wrong.

Desmond couldn't see well from the tiny little glass window in his door, but he could tell something was going on with the Animus; Lucy looked frantic, and she was yelling. The holoscreen slid away from over Altaïr's head, and she rushed up to check his pulse. She paled, and started doing CPR.

_Not good._

Desmond glanced around the Animus's room frantically; Vidic had jumped up and was yelling at someone, probably Lucy. Lucy was busy trying to get a response from Altaïr. A medical team barged in carrying a defibrillator.

It was like a nightmare, watching them try and shock the life back into Altaïr.


	10. Chapter 10: Goodbyes

**Well... Here it is. The last chapter. I must say, it has been quite an experience, posting my fanfic here. As I've said a hundred times before, thank you for all of your encouraging reviews. However, now it's time to draw this fic to a close.**

**As for what I'll do now... I don't know. I have an inkling of some KOTOR oneshots drifting along in the back of my mind, but no other fic I have is available on this site. Now that I can finally lay this fic to rest, though, I can start work on my original novel once again.**

**I didn't originally plan to write a sequel to Merged Horizons, but a few of my reviews have wondered about one. I must say, if you all really loved my fic, and you would like to see a sequel, send me a PM or something. I'll probably put my Gaia account on my profile, and you can send me messages that way as well.**

**So, here is the final chapter. Enjoy.**

* * *

Chapter Ten:

Goodbyes

Naturally, Desmond panicked.

He started banging on his door, demanding to be let in (or out, depending on how you looked at it), as a medical team carried Altaïr away on a stretcher.

From what he could see, Lucy was pale and shaking; Vidic was furious and frantic, shouting orders and yelling at the medical team, Lucy, and anyone else who was unlucky enough to be in the room. Lucy got up and started screaming something back at him, causing another huge argument.

Desmond kept screaming and pounding on his door. No one noticed through the sound-proofed walls.

Lucy and Vidic had long since run out of the room, but Desmond didn't care.

After some time, his voice had gotten hoarse, and his arm was _really_ starting to hurt. He slumped to the ground, unable to believe it.

Lucy came back into the Animus's chamber after an hour or two, apparently attending to some sort of business with the Animus. She looked up suddenly, as if realizing Desmond was still in his room, and quickly opened the door.

"_What happened_?" Desmond snarled, grabbing Lucy's arm and pinning her to the door frame.

"He went into cardiac arrest," Lucy said with a strange calmness, her eyes on the ground, "A combination of the stress of the Animus and the sedatives did it."

Desmond's expression turned from anger to fear. "Is he…?"

"We were able to bring him back," Lucy said quietly, "But he's unconscious and on an IV."

Slowly, Desmond released his grip on Lucy's arm. He took a deep breath in an attempt to relax himself, and rubbed his face with his hand.

"This can't go on any longer," Lucy said quietly, bringing Desmond back from his momentary bout of depression, "We need to send him back."

"What do you mean, 'we'?" Desmond said coldly, "_You_ can't exactly help any; _you_'ve got your _job_ to worry about…"

"That was then. This is completely different," Lucy muttered. "Now are you going to help me, or not? The best _I_ can do is get him off of the tranquilizers long enough for him to metabolize the rest of it, and recover enough to be fit to be sent back. You're the one with the rest of the code."

Desmond glared at her, but said nothing. What she said made perfect sense; he just didn't want to admit it.

They were silent for a few minutes.

"Can I see him?" Desmond asked hoarsely.

Lucy glanced out into the Animus's chamber, then nodded and left, motioning for him to follow.

She carefully led him to Altaïr's room, and opened the door.

Altaïr was lying down, eyes closed, an oxygen tube running from his nose to a tank beside his bed and an IV dripping steadily into his arm. A heart monitor beeped rhythmically on the other side. The sheets shifted slightly as his chest rose and fell with his slight breaths; his eyelids twitched occasionally, as if he was looking around in a dream.

Desmond stared for a minute, hopelessly lost yet again.

He leaned down to Altaïr's level and whispered, "I'm sorry," into his ancestor's ear.

Lucy waited at the door. She didn't need to guess what Desmond had said.

--

"We need to take Altaïr off of the sedatives," Lucy said to Vidic, her voice echoing through the air ducts and into Desmond's bathroom. "He won't recover if we keep suppressing his heart rate with the tranquilizers."

Vidic was not pleased. "And risk him going psychotic and attacking all of our men? No. He'd kill us all."

"Not if he's confined to his room. He'll still be fairly weak; he won't need to be put back on the tranquilizers until he's strong enough to pose an actual threat."

"No."

Lucy sighed angrily. "Please, Dr. Vidic. Think of what a loss this would be if he didn't recover…"

"We could always just induce a coma."

"With his heart rate right now? You'd basically be killing him."

"Not if we were careful; if we administered just the right amount—"

"_And what if we didn't_? He'd be dead, and Mr. Rikkin would skin you alive."

"I understand that."

"So why take the risk? Altaïr can't harm us if he's still too weak to get out of bed."

Vidic was silent for a minute. "I—"

"I'll oversee the entire thing," Lucy said, "You can focus your energies on something else. Just leave it all to me."

"…Very well," Vidic said, sounding relieved, "We'll go with your plan of action. Just be careful; if something happens and someone dies, _I'm_ the one who's getting in trouble."

"Yes, Dr. Vidic," Lucy said, sounding relieved as well, "Thank you."

Desmond climbed down from his sink as soon as he heard the clack of Lucy's heels against linoleum, and pretended to not have heard anything when she came in.

"Well?" he asked.

"I know you can hear everything from the air duct in your bathroom," Lucy said scornfully, "I'm not stupid." She coughed, and added, "I got permission to let him heal up, at least. I'll get him off the sedatives right away." She turned on her heel and left. "_You're welcome_."

"Oh, yeah, thanks," Desmond said hastily, but Lucy had already left.

--

Altaïr was faring considerably better after a couple of days; he was still too feeble to get out of bed, but he wasn't unconscious, and didn't have to listen to the beep of his heart monitor anymore.

Lucy came in with an IV bag; the first one Altaïr had ever seen. Usually they changed them as he slept, but the current one was nearly empty now. Vidic had decided that Altaïr was now too dangerous to be left to his own devices in an empty room.

Altaïr recoiled as he saw the bag, dread crossing his face.

"Shh, shh," Lucy murmured, trying to calm him down in the only way she could. She knew that Altaïr wouldn't take it well; he already had ripped the IV needle out of his arm twice, causing the medical team to bandage his arm in such an elaborate manner that he couldn't take out the needle without undoing the bandage, which was nearly impossible without a good pair of scissors. He almost seriously hurt himself when someone came in with a syringe; in a desperate attempt to escape, he accidentally tangled himself up in his sheets and fell off the bed, pulling down the IV rack on top of the startled nurse and acquiring a nasty bump to the head on his bedside table. The IV was the only option anymore.

Lucy, of course, knew that the saline solution in the bag she had swapped with the original wouldn't hurt Altaïr. If anything, it would make him stronger. But _he_ didn't know that, and _that_ was the problem.

Altaïr wasn't giving up without a fight; as soon as Lucy had disconnected the tube that ran from his arm to the drip bag, he jerked it out of her grasp and the metal prongs of the IV rack and coiled it up toward him. He glared at her, daring her to try and take it back.

Lucy made one or two failed attempts to get it back, before she realized it was hopeless. She didn't want to call guards in, because one of them might notice that her bag wasn't full of horse tranquilizers. She _especially_ didn't want to call Vidic in; that would probably send Altaïr into hysterics, and he might end up hurting someone.

She only had one choice.

Lucy checked behind her nervously, and made it so that the hidden cameras wouldn't be able to see her hands. She didn't like doing this; it was too risky to blow her cover now.

Silently, she showed Altaïr her left hand, with the ring finger down.

The universal symbol for the Assassins.

Altaïr's eyes widened, and Lucy quickly put a finger to her lips.

He stared at her for a moment, disbelief crossing his face.

She nodded, her finger still on her lips.

Almost imperceptibly, he nodded. He understood.

He reluctantly showed her his IV tube, and she quickly snatched it and hooked it up to the bag of saline solution. As she left, she gave him a small smile, and pressed her finger to her lips once more.

Altaïr nodded, and laid back his head. As he drifted back into sleep, he let out a content sigh; his hunch had been right all along. Lucy was an Assassin spy.

--

Either Altaïr was a very good actor or Lucy had accidentally forgotten to swap IV bags; he acted mostly the same as when he was on the tranquilizers before: he mostly slept, reacted strongly to bright lights, and looked downright miserable most of the time. However, she knew he was only faking; when she'd come in with another bag of saline solution to swap out with the old, he'd smile subtly, before squinting and turning away.

After some time of this, Lucy managed to convince Dr. Vidic to let Desmond see him again.

"Hey, Altaïr," Desmond said cautiously as he walked into the room.

Altaïr squinted up at him, as if he couldn't focus his eyes. Desmond saw the spark in them, though; Altaïr was back.

"Desmond?" he whispered, his voice hoarse from disuse.

Lucy intervened. "You have ten minutes, Dez. Any longer than that and Vidic will come and drag you out." Pausing for a second, she whispered, "The security guard currently on video duty is also taking a nice break. He'll be back in ten."

Desmond was about to thank her, when he had a revelation. Since when did she call him Dez?

Lucy left quickly, leaving Altaïr and Desmond alone.

"Nice to have you back, Altaïr."

Altaïr smiled and propped himself up. "It is nice to be back. I knew we could trust her."

"Yeah, she kind of surprised me there; I never would've expected her, _Vidic's assistant_, to be the one to help me get you back." Desmond shook his head in disbelief. "I thought all Templars were bad, but I've been proven wrong."

Altaïr paused. Desmond hadn't figured it out yet.

Should he tell him?

"Indeed, she must be one of those odd ones with a sense of justice," Altaïr said discreetly. With a small, internal smile, he thought, _I'll_ _let him figure it out for himself_.

"We've only got a couple more minutes, but she's going to help me send you back," Desmond explained quickly, "She says that Vidic is having a major meeting with his boss in a couple days, and we'll try and get you out of here then."

Altaïr stared at Desmond for a moment. "Send… me… back?"

"Yeah," Desmond said, a little bit sad, "Back to your own time. Back to Masyaf."

Altaïr couldn't believe it. _Finally_.

He was going _home_.

"I am going home," he whispered to himself.

"Yep," Desmond said, "And soon."

Lucy came back to the door, this time brisk and professional. "Time's up, Desmond."

Desmond turned back to Altaïr before leaving. "Concentrate on getting better, okay?"

Altaïr just stared up at the ceiling. "_I am going home_."

--

"Are you sure you've got everything covered, Lucy?" Vidic said nervously, checking and rechecking his briefcase, notes, files, tie, and clothes as he prepared to leave the lab to fly on a private jet owned by Abstergo; his recent blunders had made Mr. Rikkin quite irritated, and he wanted to make a good impression at their meeting.

"Yes, Dr. Vidic," Lucy said mechanically.

"Positive?"

"Yes, Dr. Vidic."

"Are you sure?"

Lucy sighed. "I have everything under control. No problems." She stalled for a moment, before asking, "Are you going to tell Rikkin about…"

"No," Vidic said quietly, "He does not need to know. I'm already on a short leash and over my time limit. He'll be homicidal if I tell him I've been using some of my time to test an experimental machine, no matter _how_ successful it is, _especially_ since our most vital test subject almost died." He glanced around conspiratorially, and added, "It will just be between you, me, Desmond and Altaïr. No one else needs to know." He started out the door, then added, "If it's at all possible, try and see if you can get any information out of Altaïr's memories; I don't want the time to be wasted."

Lucy nodded obediently. "Yes, Dr. Vidic." She paused, before adding, "What if we can't get any more information? Do I just send him back?"

Dr. Vidic took a deep breath. "Not if you can help it. Try everything before resorting to that. What is it those Assassins say? Nothing is fact—"

"Nothing is true, everything is permitted," Lucy said quietly.

"Good memory," Dr. Vidic said, his mind too frazzled to notice the absolute solemnity that Lucy had said the six words.

As soon as Vidic was gone for five minutes, Lucy arranged for the guards to take a well-deserved break, and got Desmond over to help her get Altaïr out of their time.

Altaïr was pleased to see them; Lucy quickly unbandaged his arm and removed his IV needle, making it so there wouldn't even appear to be a wound.

Lucy led Desmond and Altaïr to a separate lab, where she managed to find Altaïr's Assassin robes and weapons locked away in a storeroom. Someone was supposed to study them, but it never got done. She handed them to a very grateful Altaïr, who almost immediately started stripping. Desmond explained to him that he was making Lucy feel very, very awkward and that there was an empty storage room over on his right and a bathroom some ways down the hall.

"How exactly does this thing work, anyway?" Desmond asked as the trio raced down the halls to the Phoenix Project's room.

"It's mainly composed of a wormhole generator," Lucy said quickly, "That specifies a particular DNA signature in the timestream and creates a space-time vortex which attaches itself to the subject DNA signature, and then propels the subject in question through the space-time continuum to a particular place in the present, where the subject is released through the wormhole's exit."

"…Right."

"You have no idea what I just said, do you?"

"No."

Lucy sighed. "It makes a wormhole that finds the specific person or animal that you program it to, and takes it into the future."

Altaïr was still strapping on his weapons when Lucy ushered them into the Phoenix Project's room. It was a little dusty; her hands left definite marks on the touchscreen once she re-activated it, the screen humming almost excitedly.

For the first time in more than two weeks, Altaïr flicked out his Hidden Blade. He smiled as it slid out with only the faintest "schnick", and gleamed in the light. Oh, how he had missed it.

Lucy was typing in the code for the Phoenix Project's operation madly; Desmond hadn't realized how long and complex it was until Lucy had paused, deleted some portion of it, and retyped the missing parts for about the fifth time. "Are you sure this is going to work?"

"Almost positive," Lucy said without looking up from the touchscreen.

"Almost?"

"It's not really been tested…"

Desmond paused. "So… This is all in theory."

"Yes."

"And it could go wrong."

"It could've gone wrong when you called him here," Lucy snapped, "But it didn't. I've written down the reversal code as best I can." She typed some more, and then paused. "What was the date that you brought Altaïr here?"

Desmond thought for a minute. "Er… It was Wednesday the other week…"

Lucy did some quick mental math and typed down her answer. "The time?"

"Um… About 3:30?"

She finished typing her half of the code, and turned to Desmond. "She's all yours."

Desmond hunched over the touchscreen, and began to type.

He started slowly, as his mind struggled to remember the code; as his mind began to remember the flow, he typed faster and faster, until the one key left to press was ENTER.

"Alright, it's done," he said to Lucy. Altaïr was already standing inside the metal tube, eager to be out of the future and back home.

Desmond looked up at his ancestor for what seemed to be the last time. "So… I guess this is goodbye."

Altaïr paused, then nodded.

Desmond took a deep breath, then said, "Bye, Altaïr."

His ancestor smiled sadly. "Goodbye, Desmond."

"I'll miss you, I guess."

Altaïr just shrugged. "I am always close at hand; I am in your blood. You do not have to look far."

Desmond stared at the ENTER button; it mocked him. The past few weeks had certainly been an experience like no other.

Turning away so he wouldn't have to see, Desmond hit ENTER.



Altaïr felt himself lapsing into unconsciousness; whatever force had taken him to his descendant's time had hit him with the force of a tidal wave, causing him to nearly black out. It took all his willpower to not pass out right then and there.

He slowly found himself sinking down into the ground that had suddenly materialized beneath his legs, and was falling… falling…

A voice called out to him. _Altaïr_…

_Altaïr_…

"_ALTAÏR!_"

His eyes opened a crack, just as a slap struck him hard on the cheek.

Altaïr's eyes fluttered open and he squinted up into the silhouetted figure looming above him, the sun shining painfully bright. "Malik? Is that you?"

"No, it's Robert de Sable," the silhouette said with a sarcastic tone, "Of course it's me, you fool. Al Mualim has been looking for you everywhere."

Altaïr blinked; was he _really_ back home?

"I thought you were supposed to be in Jerusalem…"

"The Bureau leaders are supposed to give a report to Al Mualim today. I just finished mine, before he sent me looking for _you_."

Altaïr was still skeptical. "Malik, what day is it?"

Malik rolled his eyes, but told him; the same day Altaïr had supposedly left.

"How long have I been gone?"

"Gone?" Malik said, raising an eyebrow, "You just got back from your assignment in Acre; what do you mean, gone? Al Mualim has been looking for you for a good thirty minutes, at the very least."

Altaïr blinked. He could've _sworn_ he was gone for over two weeks, but had it only been a half hour?

It must have been a dream.

A very _strange_ dream, but a dream nonetheless.

Even now, as Altaïr got up and dusted off his Assassin robes, it was fading in his mind; the pain of the syringe and the awful medicine, the horror of the Animus, the terror he had felt were all just memories now, and quickly being forgotten, as he forgot most of his dreams.

One image refused to erase itself, however; a face nearly identical to his own, with a sad smile and a mournful look in those striking, dark green eyes.

"Desmond…"

Malik scowled. "You've finally gone crazy, haven't you?"

"No," Altaïr said quietly, staring up to the sky, "Just a dream."



He was gone.

Desmond couldn't really believe it; Altaïr was gone.

He felt Lucy's hand on his shoulder. "He's home now, Desmond. Don't worry about him; he can take care of himself."

Desmond nodded, more to himself than Lucy, and asked, "How are you going to explain this to Vidic?"

"Altaïr's heart got dangerously close to giving out again, so I kept him isolated for a couple hours to burn off the tranquilizers, and sent him back." She glanced over at him. "Right?"

"Right."

"And you agreed to work with me on the Animus to make up for lost time?"

"I never agreed to that."

"Vidic will be furious otherwise."

Desmond sighed. "Alright, I guess."

Within a few minutes, Desmond was back on the Animus. He used his eyemouse to search the DNA strands to where he left off, and was relieved to see his vision cloud over as the synchronization became successful.

Altaïr was right; all it would take Desmond was a trip to the Animus to see him again.

-The End-

* * *

**Thank you all, again, for reading my fanfic, and for all of your reviews.**


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